


How To Make a Pair of Angel Wings (In 13 Steps)

by sandrayln



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Body Horror, But only a little, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, God intervenes for her favorite bastard children, M/M, Post-Canon, Wingfic, Wings, did I mention wings, so many wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-08-10 17:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandrayln/pseuds/sandrayln
Summary: In which a number of people discover that God is still paying attention after Armageddon.





	1. Step 1: Examine Your Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> I... had some feelings about people who faced down the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and wings...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When’s the last time you molted?”
> 
> The last time he - what. “Come again?”

**Now**

“Hello, angel.”

“Crowley, I need to ask you something very personal.”

He hates these calls - he really does. Aziraphale can go days with just a quick check-in regarding their next round of plans, but every now and then, he calls up with “I need to ask you something very personal.” Sometimes they’re something philosophical, something deeper and more real than their normal arguments. Sometimes he’s asking about a memory of something, a time where they stood together or not at all together, as though he’s checking his recollection in a new light, comparing old assumptions against new information. Once, he’d danced around the topic of feelings and being _best friends_, until they were both on edge and frustrated. Crowley is virtually certain each and every single one of these calls is a result of trying to figure out if he’s going to remain an angel or not and whether Heaven still needs to dictate his actions. He doesn’t mind so much that the angel is trying to figure it out - it’s just his timing is usually _bloody awful_.

Like now. He’d been about to go to sleep, but here was the angel with a _personal question_ again.

“Go ahead,” he says, resigned.

“When’s the last time you molted?”

The last time he - what. “Come again?”

“Oh, we both know very well that you heard me.” The angel sounds testy, something he hasn’t heard since just before the Not-Apocalypse[1]. “It wasn’t the fourteenth century, was it?”

“Naaah.” He’d molted then, sure, but that wasn’t why he hated that one century in particular. “1952. After the war, everything felt a bit shabby. Did a bit of shedding. Missed the coronation, though. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Crowley could swear he hears a sound like someone’s trying to scratch their back on a wall. It’s muffled through the phone, but it’s pretty distinctive. And the only way it could possibly be that loud is if the being doing the scratching is the one on the phone. “But I was in Heaven. I just figured you were on assignment somewhere else and hadn’t been able to tell me when I didn’t see you at there. I didn’t think Hell has a department for molting…?”

“They don’t.” And no one would have visited it, if there were. It would have been too unsafe - anything could happen in Hell when you were grounded. He shakes himself out of the train of thought and listens. Yep, there’s that back-scratching sound again. “Angel, are you molting? Right now?”

There’s a longer silence, the kind that Crowley just knows is full of the angel internally dithering back and forth on what he wants to say. It’s less about what Heaven might want these days, thankfully, and it’s more likely for it to happen over a dessert menu. This one isn’t Heaven-indecisive and it’s not normal indecisive, he realizes as it stretches on; it’s deciding-to-share-something-very-personal indecisive. It’s vulnerable-indecisive. It’s remembering-we’re-on-_our-side_ indecisive. He wants to be annoyed about that, but it has only been a few months. He has a few bad habits of his own that he hasn’t been able to shake. If he’s honest with himself, he might not have made this call, if their places were reversed - and he wouldn’t have been much more decisive if he had.

He’s just about to ask again when Aziraphale finally answers. His voice is quiet and small, in that way it gets when he’s both anxious and embarrassed at his behavior. “I think so. And I’m rather afraid of what color they’ll grow in.”

“I’m sure they’re going to come in as white as ever.” Crowley can’t entirely blame him for still fearing a Fall, but nothing has happened, not even a memo. They haven’t heard a single word from either side, not since they traded faces and escaped their punishments[2]. Given Gabriel’s flair for theatrics, if there is going to be a Fall… they’ll know. Probably in advance, and likely in triplicate.

“What if they don’t?”

Great. Aziraphale’s gone over into plaintive now, and if six thousand years have taught him anything, it’s that he’s an absolute sucker for that voice from this angel. “Then we’ll figure it out. Now, am I picking you up or are you taking a cab?”

“Crowley!”

“Aziraphale!” He doesn’t quite mimic the tone, on purpose, but he does get the badly-suppressed huff of laughter he was hoping for. “Look, you’re coming over here. You can barely spread your wings in the bookshop, and you know it. So either you can take a cab and sit there all uptight and uncomfortable the whole time, or I can come pick you up and you can spend the ride scratching your back on the Bentley. You know which one’s going to be shorter.”

“I’m not scratching my back.”

“Mmyeah, all right.” He is, he totally is, even as he protests, but Crowley’s going to let that slide for now. Molting is terrible and itchy, and he swears he’s starting to itch in sympathy now. “Bring something comfortable to sleep in. I’ll let you have the bed.”

“The couch would be - “

“The couch is terrible for sleeping when you’ve got your wings out,” he interrupts as he slithers to his feet. “Bloody awful. The bed’s bigger. The _bedroom_ is bigger. Only question here, angel, is whether you’re taking a cab or not.”

There’s a considering noise - and more back-scratching in the background - before the angel sighs. “I’ll try to finish packing before you get here. Do try not to run anyone over on the way, my dear.”

* * *

[1] Untrue. He has heard it. He just hasn’t paid _attention_ to it, because it usually sounds like Aziraphale being his normal self. This… this does not. [Return]  
[2] If he thinks of it as punishment, Crowley can ignore the burning rage that someone dared think they could execute his angel - or himself for that matter. And he mostly succeeds.  
Mostly. [Return]


	2. Step 2: Consult With an Expert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know ‘a few steps’ sounds ominous even to me, right?”
> 
> That earns him a quiet laugh. **_“I know, dear, but I think you might like what I have in store.”_**

**Seven years from Now**

In Lower Tadfield, where the weather had once been a young boy’s dream[1], Adam Young turns 18. And after the cake and the presents and the announcing of his university plans, after the sun set and he’s curled up under his comforter, a moonbeam finds its way under the eaves and in through the window.

He watches it settle with a hint of a smile. “Grandmother.”

There’s an answering smile in the voice that comes from the light. **_“Happy birthday, Adam.”_**

“Thank you.” He pauses, appreciating the ritual[2]. “What did you bring me this year?”

**_“Knowledge,”_** and there’s something in Her voice that makes him sit up in bed.

“Another Antichrist?”

** _“No, they’ll not try that trick again for a few millennia. They are getting restless, though, so I think it’s time I take a few steps to ensure that they won’t be messing anything up quite yet.”_ **

He frowns at the beam of light. “You know ‘a few steps’ sounds ominous even to me, right?”

That earns him a quiet laugh. **_“I know, dear, but I think you might like what I have in store.”_**

“Which is?”

**_“Part of my Ineffable Plan.”_** Adam swears he hears another smile in Her voice. **_“But I am going to give you a piece of it.”_**

“In words this time?” he asks wryly. The last time She’d given him a boon of knowledge straight to the brain, he’d struggled through a week’s worth of headaches.

** _“Of course. I mean to make spirits of Earth, not unlike the angels of Heaven and the demons of Hell. I’ve already chosen my First, and the rest shall come into their power in their own time, when they’re ready.”_ **

“Do I get to know who any of them are?”

** _“My First? Yourself, Crowley, and Aziraphale, of course.”_ **

Adam rolls his eyes, laughing despite himself at her sly ignoring of his actual question. “Can I have a hint on the others?”

** _“Not tonight, I think. Are you not going to ask when you get your transcendence?”_ **

“Nah. I’m okay with that surprise.” He’s been a still vaguely empowered Antichrist long enough to know that surprises - real surprises, the kind that he didn’t even nudge towards - are few and far between. The promise that something different is coming is wonderful enough. “You can give me one hint, though. I mean, if you want.”

** _“I can. Let’s just say they’ll be along in no time, shall we?”_ **

He tucks that away under ‘cryptic comments from God’ and nods his thanks. There’s plenty of time to figure out what it means, from what She’s saying. “How are you going to keep the Earthly powers from becoming just like Heaven and Hell?”

Again, She laughs. **_“I don’t think it will be a problem. Do you?”_**

No. But he had to ask the question, just to be sure. “Have you told Aziraphale yet?”

**_“He and Crowley already know. They’ve known for years, now - known some of it, at least.”_** There’s extra warmth and amusement in the disembodied voice as She adds, **_“You might want to ask them about discorporation.”_**

“Is that another hint?”

** _“Perhaps. Good night, Adam.”_ **

* * *

[1] It had lately taken on the aspects of a teenage boy’s dreams, which were rather more ruled by hormones than said teenage boy might wish. The plants loved the rain. The Them, not so much. [Return]  
[2] She’d come when he was twelve. Then again at thirteen and all the ones in between then and now. Something dimly told him that She might not always come, but he meant to enjoy it every time She showed up. [Return]


	3. Step 3: Observe Any Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley chuckles. “You look like somebody blew up a feather pillow.”
> 
> “If you’re going to make fun - “
> 
> There’s a gentle weight to the fingers on his neck, and he settles back into place. “Not making fun. You’re just in a sorry state, feathers stuck out every which way. And that’s on top of the molting. When’s the last time you even _preened_?”__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild body horror in this chapter. Mild, I promise!

**Now**

If Aziraphale is honest with himself, it’s a relief to have Crowley insist on taking care of him. The Department of Molting and Preening in Heaven had been thorough, but clinical and ruthlessly practical. _They_ wouldn’t have insisted he bring his favorite cocoa mug and a stack of books that only fit in his bag because a certain demon has a real fondness for Mary Poppins. Of course, that assumes he’d even be let in the door - not a sure thing, these days. He hadn’t wanted to chance it - even if he _had_ heard from Heaven[1], he’d be shy of going up there and putting himself in a vulnerable position and in their hands. 

One does not, after all, just brush off _attempted execution_.

The flat is as severe in decor as the last time he’d seen it, but he isn’t given much time to sight-see. Crowley drags him into a room that he’s pretty sure used to be the office - yes, there’s the throne, stashed away in a corner now - and miracles a chair into the middle of the space. “Sit.”

Absently, Aziraphale takes a seat - and then flushes as he’s stared at pointedly. He quickly gets back up and reverses his position. “Right, sorry. The other way.”

“Six thousand years, angel, and you’re still figuring this out? And take those layers off - you know I’m going to have to get at your back.”

“They had massage tables last time,” he retorts. “Or something like them, anyway.” Reluctantly, he sheds his coat and vest, handing each piece off so it can be laid neatly on the desk by the wall. 

He hesitates over his shirt - how many centuries has it been since being half-dressed wasn’t a way to be vulnerable or a prelude to sexual contact? - but he knows it has to go too. The wings can manifest just fine through clothing, but normally one doesn’t need to access all the tiny little feathers across the shoulders and back just for a manifestation. Or even for flight, honestly, if it’s just a short one. It’s just when those little feathers need to be encouraged free so new growth can come in that there’s no option but to wander around in nothing but your trousers. He surrenders shirt and bowtie with a sigh and tries not to wrap his arms around his nakedness. He isn’t adverse to Crowley seeing him naked in the right circumstances, but these aren’t the circumstances he’d hoped for and he really is feeling quite vulnerable, with the molting and all. 

It’s a small mercy that the flat isn’t _cold_; it might be so modern as to feel sterile, but it’s warm enough to keep a serpent happy. Or a half-dressed angel.

“Right.” A thin, cool hand lands on the nape of his neck in a steadying gesture, and even though it surprises him, he doesn’t flinch. It feels oddly safe, letting this particular demon hover over him like this, even if there are certain unresolved questions about their friendship still. It’s certainly feeling much safer than it did the last time he’d visited Molting and Preening and the tired-eyed angels there[2]. “Let’s see ‘em, angel.”

Something in his gut drops out. This is really the test, isn’t it? If he’s going to Fall because of Armageddon, this is when it’ll show. He’s sure he would have known by now - he should have felt it by now, should have gotten a memo or five from Heaven - but he can’t help the quiet fear. And he can’t bear to look at his wings, not yet, so Aziraphale folds his arms on the back of the chair and leans his forehead down. The pose blocks his view as neatly as the blinkers they used to put on all the carriage horses as he stretches out into the physical realm. 

Even that already feels better; perhaps he’d been foolish to just keep them winched away for days. Maybe _next_ time, he’ll remember that.

On the other hand… much as he’d like to think maybe he isn’t _really_ molting, he can’t. There’s always a few shed feathers floating around his habitual seats in the shop; they drop into the ethereal realm most of the time, but now and then, a small one will catch just the right eddy as it falls and drop into the physical world[3]. But those are all small feathers, and only one or two, here or there. Now, he’s got a veritable pile of them, and this morning, he found a secondary feather lying neatly behind his counter. There’s no denying it: something’s happening, and that something _has_ to be molting.

Crowley chuckles. “You look like somebody blew up a feather pillow.”

“If you’re going to make fun - “

There’s a gentle weight to the fingers on his neck, and he settles back into place. “Not making fun. You’re just in a sorry state, feathers stuck out every which way. And that’s on top of the molting. When’s the last time you even _preened_?”

Aziraphale can only shake his head. They both know the answer is ‘not recently enough.’ He really only went to Molting and Preening when he absolutely had to, and the rest of the time, he’d basically made do. It usually took a few days and several tries to get everything properly settled again. Only, the last eleven years hadn’t had much time even for that.

“And what’re _these_?” The demon’s other hand brushes his back, lower down - one place, two, three, and four. The touch feels odd, like his fingers are brushing against a swollen surface. “I know it’s been a few centuries since we last hung around with wings out, but I don’t remember these before.”

That feeling in his gut bottoms out, and a sour hint of proper panic rises in the back of his throat. He starts to twist, remembering too late that he was trying to not look at his wings - _that feather isn’t white, is that cream?_ \- and then, a beat later, remembering that he’s not going to be able to see things on his back anyway. Things that, as far as he knows, _shouldn’t be there_. There aren’t exactly mirrors in Heaven, but none of the other angels had mystery spots on their backs, and surely someone would have pointed them out to him some time in the last _six millennia_. “What - “ His voice cracks and Aziraphale pauses, collects himself, and starts again. “Crowley? What are you seeing?”

“Hold on.” The demon takes a few steps to the side, picking up his mobile. If he didn’t know Crowley so well, he’d think he was calm - but the rushed pace of his words rather disproves that. “I’ll take a photo. So you can see. Well, I’ll try to take a photo - I don’t know what the camera will pick up. Especially an electronic camera. Can’t say I’ve tried to take a photo of any part of a celestial being before.”

It’s a valid point, but… “We’re both in quite a number of photos.”

“Corporations, angel, not celestial beings. Unless you’ve figured out how to make your corporation _actually_ have wings. When’s the last time you even had them out, before the Not-Apocalypse? When you molted?”

He shifts guiltily. “Before Adam was born.”

“That’s been _twelve years_.” There’s a tell-tale noise from behind him, something like an electronic camera shutter, and then a soft, “Hmm.”

“Eleven years and six months.” Aziraphale knows he sounds prim - he _knows it_. But one must be precise about near events, even in the face of fear; he can be imprecise when this is all decades and centuries in the past, thank you. “And before you ask, it was to preen.”

“Yeah, right. Of course it was. Here.”

He looks up at the mobile dangling from Crowley’s thin fingers. He can see what the demon’s talking about immediately; there are these lumps near his spine, two mid-back and two in his lower back. They’re rounded bumps, easily fist-sized, and peculiarly blurry. Above that, perfectly unblurred, is the mass of his scapular feathers, with cream peering out from between the white. But he only has room for one kind of panic right now[4]. “What - why are they blurry?”

“Because they’re _growing_, angel.”

They stare at each other in silent dismay.

_What in Heaven's name is going on?_

* * *

[1] He hadn’t. Not a peep. [Return]  
[2] The angels of Heaven’s Department of Molting and Preening are not precisely jaded after thousands of years on the job. They’ve _seen some shit_, is all, and days off when the entire Heavenly Host relies on you to keep them in pristine order are few and far between. [Return]  
[3] Customers who notice - there’s few enough of both - are easily put off by a strategic down pillow or two. [Return]  
[4] Not true at all. Aziraphale is perfectly capable of simultaneously panicking about a number of things, but right now, the cream-colored feathers that ought to be white are at least _supposed to be there_, even if they shouldn't be quite that hue. [Return]


	4. Step 4: Cursing May Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, Pepper finds herself hurtling forward again, into half the light and 100% less wings and the guy with a knife.

** Eight years from Now **

If any of the parties involved in the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t had anticipated something happening to one of their number and had to choose who would be first, it would have been Madame Tracy. Or Shadwell. Maybe Newt[1]. What no one expected - though perhaps they should have - was that Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, still going by Pepper[2], would be the first of that strange company to change.

Imagine, if you will, the scene: a London club. A late night. A group of men and women - not girls, never girls - dressed for a night out on the town, trying to forget their daylight cares.

Imagine, though you’ll wish you hadn’t, the man with a knife. One of those daylight cares. Not Pepper’s, no, but that of a dear friend of hers. An abusive man, a man turned from boyfriend to husband to ex, but not before he left behind his share of marks.

Imagine the incandescent rage. Imagine the fury that this man would _dare_ to attack one of Pepper’s friends. Pepper’s girlfriend, yes, but it could have been any of her friends - honestly, could have been anyone at all, and she’d still be lunging to get between them, lunging to knock the blade out of the way.

Pepper’s not one for defense. Unless you’re talking defensiveness. Offense, she thinks, has always thought, makes a great replacement for defense. Nobody wants to probe for weakness when you come at them like an angry badger. It works. It always works. Right up until it doesn’t and you’re going to be a few seconds too late, and there’s bloody _nothing_ you can do about it. It’s not as if you can stop time itself.

And so, when time _does_ hitch to a stop, Pepper stumbles wildly. Before she can get her bearings, before she even knows what happened, everything is white light except - wings? At least two of them, lurking in the corners of her vision. They’re huge, these wings, sized for a human form. They flap a little and spread as she tries to regain her balance and her feet. 

Does she… does she have wings? Wings of sable and brown and cream, barred and patterned like a bird? _Wensley would know which bird,_ she thinks[3], almost drunk on something an awful lot like that day at the airfield when the world didn’t end.

_**“Guardian,”**_ a woman’s voice says. It’s not anybody she’s heard before, but Pepper still somehow recognizes that voice. Some animal hindbrain in her knows it and whispers _safe, trustworthy._ _**“Your dominion is the equality of all.”**_

And just like that, Pepper finds herself hurtling forward again, into half the light and 100% less wings and the guy with a knife.

Hours later, after the police have done their duty and arrested the bastard, and after Pepper has personally escorted everyone in her group back to their homes despite their protests, she has a minute or two to breathe. So she does.

And then she picks up her mobile and punches in a familiar number, probably with far too much emphasis for the touch screen. She doesn’t even let him draw breath after _hello_. “Adam. What. The _fuck._”

* * *

[1] In fact, “something happening to Newt” was high on both Heaven’s and Hell’s betting lists. Not through any malice, but due to the sheer fascination of watching someone so destructive to the modern world make his way through it. [Return]  
[2] And still more likely than not to react just as she had at 4 and 11 to being called her whole messy, obnoxious name. [Return]  
[3] Later, much later, after she had a chance to really look at them, she’d search the internet and find out they were much like a hen harrier’s wings. She never did ask Wensleydale - like the rest of the Them, she’d long ago learned when to ask and when the resulting lecture wasn’t going to be worth the annoyance. [Return]


	5. Step 5: Consider Panic As an Alternative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure. It’s fine. Everything’s _fine_. Bloody angel.
> 
> “Well? Are you going to tell me what that means, or am I just guessing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more mild body horror this chapter.

**Now**

Crowley shakes himself back into action when Aziraphale’s hand creeps back for a scratch, reaching anxiously for a spot between his shoulderblades that he’ll never actually reach without dislocating something. The angel is rapidly moving into a state of badly-repressed panic that he’d really been hoping not to see again, and if he’s honest, he’s not too far behind on the worry front. Clearly this hadn’t happened before, or Aziraphale would have mentioned it. And he’s pretty sure it’s never happened to _him_. 

But only one of them can really panic at a time, or nothing’s ever going to get done. “Right.” He flips the mobile carelessly onto the desk, willing it not to crack when it lands, and makes his way back around to get his hands on some feathers. “You’re molting.”

“I have _growths_.” It’s practically a wail. “What do you think it - could I be - “

Of all the ridiculous, stupid ideas. “We didn’t _grow things_ before we Fell,” he snaps impatiently. “And I can’t feel that you’re anything other than your normal angelic self. So I’m not going to worry about that - unless there’s something you forgot to tell me.”

The angel drops his head back onto his arms. “No. I suppose there’s not. And there’s no one in Heaven or Hell or on Earth that we can call to ask about this, either.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, and sighs it out. “What color are my feathers coming in?”

Yeah, he’s not fooling either of them by pretending not to have seen them. Even if he hadn’t managed to catch a peek before, Crowley made damned sure that he caught some of the new scapulars in that photo. But he knows a little something about trying to distract yourself from a bigger problem by focusing on the smaller, and he’ll take the offered olive branch from the _real_ expert in the room. “Same color as parchment. Or your hair, maybe. ‘Sssa lovely color, ‘Zira. Nothing at all like a Fallen’s wings.”

His shoulders droop a little, but finally, finally, Aziraphale looks. In profile, the demon can see the hesitation give way to surprise. And then, as he finally touches one of the secondaries with a gentle hand, he finds his way to that expression that Crowley has watched cross his face at a million meals: delight.

He’s far too busy studying the feather to notice Crowley’s faint grin at the sight of that wide-eyed look, but that’s all right. It would probably cause another discussion about _feelings_ if he did.

“You’re right, my dear. They’re lovely.” The angel’s smile is briefly like sunshine, and he can’t help but bask in it a little. “Could you - “ And the smile dims. “Could you let me know if anything… changes? Back there, I mean.”

He glances down at the lumps, which are still growing. It’s not so much that they’re expanding at an alarming rate as it is that they’re visually expanding _at all_ that has him alarmed. They’re starting to change shape now, in a way that reminds him of something, but what it reminds him of is just out of reach. If he can remember it, he’ll share, he decides. Or if they stop growing. Or whatever. “…Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

They fall silent then, Crowley settling into a rhythm with the work as he willfully ignores the strange bumps. Yes, they’re there. But he doesn’t have to choose to pay attention to them as he works his way across the angel’s left wing. None of the primaries have dropped yet, and only a couple of secondaries, but the smaller feathers are half white and half cream, singly and in irregular patterns that don’t resolve into anything more than a splotch of color. He shoots a quick glance at the lumps before he sidles between the wall and the wingtip to take on the other face of it, and they’re still… doing whatever the Hell it is they’re doing. Gently bulging. Whatever. It’s fine, nothing’s _changed_, exactly, so he doesn’t mention it.

Aziraphale watches as he works his way across the front of the wing, just the faintest suggestion of a smile curving his lips. “That feels quite nice, Crowley. Molting and Preening was always just… efficient.”

Rough, he suspects the angel means, but won’t say. There’s getting the job done and there’s taking _care_ at the job, and those aren’t the same thing. Sure, he could just get the job done - but after millennia of doing no one’s wings but his own, he’d forgotten how peaceful this can be, if you take a little care and don’t rush. It’s… nice… to be reminded. And to be intimate like this, too, even if there’s a lot of things still to be worked out after six thousand years; it’s not sexual, but it’s definitely pleasurable, and there’s trust and all the other things that make intimacy a thing. Crowley has to admit - to himself, anyway - that he likes it.

Maybe he should hit up the angel when it’s his turn to molt, he thinks, pausing to scratch one shoulder absently. Then he smirks and ruffles the angel’s hair as he swaps to the other wing. “Maybe we ought to preen those curls, too. When’s the last time you did anything but wash your hair?”

“I have a barber!” Aziraphale huffs, but his cheeks are just faintly flushed now. “I see him regularly.”

“Sure you do.” He points at a pair of broken secondary feathers - brilliant white, thankfully - and scowls. “Fucking Hell. How did you break this, angel? It’s _the_ hardest place to break a feather!”

That gets the angel started, and Crowley just drops in replies to keep him going. Aziraphale mostly relaxes as he works - the muscles of his back are tense and twitch now and then, but he’s pretty well melted into the chair otherwise - and by the time he starts wittering on about the customers who’d dared to come into his store over the last week and try to _buy things_, they’ve both almost forgotten about the angel’s unusual back growths. Crowley even forgets to look as he works his way across the right wing and back to the scapulars.

He’s straightening a trio of feathers that must’ve been twisted when the angel was scratching his back when something soft brushes across his waist. Something else brushes his thighs. 

Eyebrows trying to slither up into his hairline, Crowley looks down.

Whatever he was expecting, it was not _four more wings_. The uppermost pair are the blue of Aziraphale’s eyes and already as long as a forearm. The bottommost are smaller, perhaps a handspan in length, and an iridescent gold. They’re growing from where the mystery bumps were - and the bumps themselves are gone now, buried in feathers. Hesitantly, he drops a hand to touch each, and they’re downy and soft.

And _still growing_.

“Angel?”

All the hard work he’d done to get the bloody angel to relax is gone, just like that. “Crowley?”

He tries not to let the - he’s not even panicking now, really, it’s more of a very real concern that he _doesn’t know what’s happening_ \- show in his voice. Which mostly means he sounds strangled. “’Zira, you have extra wings.”

“_What?!_”

“No, stop - “ He grabs the angel’s shoulders and pulls down, forcing him back into his seat. There are wings flapping against him, way more than there should be for just a Principality of Heaven, so it’s uncomfortably like trying to constrict a flock of birds[1]. He raises his voice to be heard over the rustle of feathers. “Oi, Aziraphale, will you _sit down?!_ I’ve got to - let me get the mobile so you can see!”

Finally, there’s a huff and the angel settles again. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable - “

“They’re on your back,” Crowley hisses. “Just how many times were you planning to spin around in circles?”

“I could reach - “

“Not that way, you bloody well couldn’t.” He stalks over to where his mobile had landed and snatches it up. 

He snaps a couple of pictures with a ruthless disregard for how little pressure one needs to operate a touchscreen. The new wings are continuing to expand, but the higher ones are at least doing so a bit less quickly than they had been. If he has to guess, they’ll be a bit longer than the original pair, when all’s said and done, but they’re not there yet. He’s glad he’s basically done with that first pair for now, though, because it’s going to be impossible to reach them soon.

Aziraphale sticks a hand over his shoulder, in that aggrievedly impatient way he gets when he’s screwed up his courage, and Crowley slaps his phone into the outstretched palm and waits for the judgment.

“They’re.” The angel’s voice breaks again, but that’s not panic. Crowley has, after six thousand years, compiled an extensive catalog of this one particular angel’s vocal tics, and particularly after Armageddon-that-wasn’t, that catalog has pages and pages on panic. This one is - he circles around the spread of wings to be sure. 

Yep. Awe. Silent, stunned awe.

“Actual wings, yes,” he says finally, because someone has to reboot Aziraphale’s brain and clearly the angel isn’t capable of it right now.

“Only archangels have six wings.” It’s a whisper.

“I think some of the Lords of Hell might, if they ever showed them.” Crowley has a vague memory of seeing Dagon’s wings once. Or maybe Dagon was destroying two other, smaller demons; he’d very quickly made the decision to leave the area rather than stay to find out. “But they don’t always have feathers, so. Probably not that, then. Maybe you’re - “

“An archangel now?” Aziraphale shakes his head. “That makes no sense, Crowley. Why would I suddenly be an _archangel_? After stopping Armageddon? The _Great Plan_?”

“I don’t know, angel!” Yep, he’s actually still panicking. And now that the words are out of his mouth, he can’t stop the tide. Or the stray hisses. “All right? I don’t know anything more than you do! I’ve never seen this before either! I wasn’t around when the archangelss were created. And I damned sure wasn’t paying attention to the Lordss when we Fell. All I know is that you’re growing extra wingsss, and they’re not white and they’re not black. I think they’re going to be the ssame sssize as the ones you’ve had the whole time. They match your eyesss and your hair and your… your _ring_. And they’re beautiful. And nothing beautiful grew when we Fell, ssso no, don’t even go there, becausse I don’t think it’s that. But I don’t know what it _isss_!”

The angel opens his mouth, pauses, and then says softly, “They are beautiful.”

Of all the - “_That’sss_ what you took out of that?”

“Not exactly.” Aziraphale folds his original wings gently - not putting them away, not yet, but giving them both a little more room to maneuver. He actually looks calmer now, like being yelled at was all he needed to decide that the whole situation is fine. 

Sure. It’s fine. Everything’s _fine_. Bloody angel.

“Well? Are you going to tell me what that means, or am I just guessing?”

“I believe you when you say it’s not like when you Fell.” The angel folds his arms on the back of the chair again and leans into it. “You’ve - I haven’t asked you about it much, but when you do talk about it, you’ve never lied to me. You’ve never made a joke of it when I’m worried. And I don’t believe it’s Heaven this time. We both know they’d demote me down to a guardian angel, not promote me. So this…” He gets a thoughtful look, and then, slowly, the four new wings tremble a little. “Oh goodness, they’re stiff still. There’s really only a few places this could have come from. And if it came from Adam - “

Despite his annoyance, Crowley finishes the sentence for him. “We’d have seen it before now. So it’s got to be from Her.”

Aziraphale nods.

“She hasn’t been around in ages. Hasn’t answered anyone, even you lot, and She got out of the signs and portents game a long time ago. It could be something new,” he protests. Even as he says it, he knows the angel is right. She wasn’t exactly likely to give someone else an honest go at Creation[2]. Or at Her angels and demons, disgraced or not. Even Adam was part of Her creation.

“After six thousand years?”

“All right, all right. But we still don’t know what it means.” 

“What if this is to do with being on our own side?” 

Could it be that simple? “If it is, that’s… big. Enormous.”

“And not a bad thing. We both know that Heaven and Hell won’t give up the idea of war. Surely Earth will need a few defenders.” Aziraphale looks pleased with himself at the very idea. “I could always be wrong, of course, my dear. But it does seem rather - “

“Don’t say ‘ineffable,’” Crowley interrupts, pained. _Again_ with the ineffable thing.

The angel smiles. “All right, I won’t. And I shall try not to be insufferable when you grow in a few extra sets of wings yourself, my dear.”

He shakes his head, hiding a smirk. The angel isn’t fooling either of them with _that_, either. “C’mon. I’m going to teach you how to order takeaway online.”

* * *

[1] He would know. He’s not proud of it, but desperate times and all that. [Return]  
[2] Author’s note: Please enjoy whatever number of creation-level deities you prefer, dear reader. [Return]


	6. Step 6: Lose the Instructions (Because That Helps)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dreamed of Agnes.”
> 
> He huffs into her hair. “That daft old bird? Again?”
> 
> She smiles and kisses his cheek. “Funny you should say that. I also dreamed I had wings.”

**Eight and one-half years from Now**

Anathema jerks from sound asleep to completely, utterly awake in one wild, flailing movement. She knows she must have fallen asleep, but all she can think about is the words burned into the back of her eyelids.

_I knowe right well that this will be burned, Anathema._  
_But hear ye well: you may be ridde of my Booke - but not of prophecy._  
_There will be others such as I, and Youre dominion they - and I - shall be._  
_Tend them welle, Guardian._

And in the dream, she’s quite sure, she had huge grey-barred wings. Owl wings, perhaps, which only makes sense - owls are considered omens, birds who prophecy doom.

The dream didn’t feel like doom, but given some of Agnes’ prophecies, owls don’t feel inappropriate.

She’s still standing in the back garden, considering just what it was she dreamed, when Newt comes home. The afternoon is cloudy and pleasant, and she’s far from sorry to see him… but it’s too early for him to be home. He doesn’t say much - just gives her a kiss and wraps his arms around her, staring off in the same direction with a thoughtful look. He smells like the aftermath of an electrical fire, acrid smoke and lightning.

“How was your day?” she asks after a while.

“Blew a generator at work because they insisted I use a computer. Yours?”

“Dreamed of Agnes.”

He huffs into her hair. “That daft old bird? Again?”

She smiles and kisses his cheek. “Funny you should say that. I also dreamed I had wings.”

Against her back, Newt stills in a way she long ago figured out meant something very important was going on behind his eyes. It’s best to wait these out, let him come to his conclusions and spit them out in his own time[1], so she doesn’t rush him.

Eventually, he says casually, “The generator actually blew up, this time. Set fire to the place and everything. I was helping Mrs. D get out, and I was sure she’d had a stroke. Sent her off to hospital. She was swearing I was an angel, with magpie wings. I was too busy trying to keep us from suffocating to look and see if it was true.”

“You don’t have wings now,” she points out reasonably.

“Neither do you. But I think maybe we should go visit our friends in London.”

“This could all have a reasonable explanation.”

“That part could. The part where I swear the fire was whispering ‘guardian of technology’ in a woman’s voice the whole time is a little harder to explain. What did Agnes say?”

She recites the words to him quietly.

After another long silence, Newt shakes his head and presses a kiss into her hair. “So you’re either responsible for the dead or for prophecy.”

“Prophecy, I think. Otherwise, how would I know what Agnes wrote? We _burned_ that book. And she did specifically say I wouldn’t be rid of prophecy. Not being rid of her was almost an afterthought.”

“Are you going to try being a professional descendant again?” 

He actually sounds worried about that, bless him, and Anathema laughs, shaking her head. “No. No way. It wasn’t like that. There was a sense of finality to it, even aside from the words, like it was the last prophecy meant for me.”

“I thought we’d arranged that when we burned the book,” Newt answers wryly.

“Guess not.” She leans into him. “Guardian of technology, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“And Agnes was telling me I’m the guardian of prophecy.”

“If that’s true…” He trails off for a long moment, then picks up again. “Then we’re both guardians of things we don’t really… get along with.”

“I get along with prophecy.”

“You used to let prophecy rule your life.”

Stung, because sometimes the truth hurts, she snaps back, “And you let pursuit of technology ruin your life. You could have been a farmer or… or something that didn’t need computers!”

Newt chuckles softly. “Yeah. I could have, but I didn’t. Anathema, do you think that’s why? We know how it can all go wrong, so we’re best suited to monitor and make sure things go right?”

At that moment, a shaft of warm sunlight breaks through, highlighting them both in gold. All around them, the world seems to take a breath and pause, as a woman’s voice says quietly, _**“Yes.”**_ There’s a power in it that makes Anathema flinch with not-currently-active witches’ senses, like spotting an unexpected dark shape she can’t identify in the next room in the moments between waking up and reaching for her glasses. _**“What once cursed you, you shall oversee, Guardians.”**_

And then it’s gone - the voice, the presence, and the shaft of light. Clouds slide back into place above them, the hint of blue sky scudding off into the distance.

“Was that - “ she starts, breathless. “You don’t suppose that was God…?”

“That’s it. Come on.” Newt turns them both towards the house. “I have tomorrow off. We’re going to London.”

Anathema starts walking. “You have tomorrow off?”

“Er… well. They didn’t blame me for the fire[2], but the building kind of isn’t there anymore[3], so it might be more than just tomorrow.” His voice is farther away than she expects, and when she looks, he’s staring back at the garden. He shakes himself and catches up to her. “Just was wondering - do you suppose this means I might be able to work a computer now?”

She smiles and kisses his cheek. “We should test and find out. Let’s start smaller, though, just in case. I think Adam said he has a smartphone he wants to get rid of.”

“Yeah, all right. Probably can’t blow up the house with one of those.” He gives her a wry smile. “What’s for dinner?”

“Takeaway,” she answers firmly. “I think you’ve had quite enough of fire today.”

* * *

[1] Except in case of emergencies, but he was smart enough to just let her take charge when things went _that_ wrong. [Return]  
[2] It looked for all the world like a freak short in the wiring. It was just coincidence, as far as anyone but Newt could tell, that he had touched a computer at the exact same moment. [Return]  
[3] The building was less “kind of not there” and more “a blackened, twisted pile of rubbish,” but he didn’t figure Anathema needed to know exactly how close he’d come to dying. Not until he was more than an arm’s length away, at least. [Return]


	7. Step 7: Repeat Steps 1-6 As Needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re going to take pictures for me, angel,” Crowley finally says. “Of all of it. So I can see.”
> 
> “I don’t think there’s a camera in existence that can - “ Aziraphale starts, because he doesn’t mind taking the photos, but the likelihood that a camera made for the human eye will be able to capture the richness and variety of color he can see seems low.
> 
> “_Picturesssss_,” the demon insists, twisting in his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more mild body horror.

**Six weeks from Now**

Aziraphale watches Crowley.

Or rather, he watches his hands. Normally, he’d have his eyes entirely on the road or screwed tightly shut as they hurtle through London at inappropriate speeds, but just before the Bentley leaped into motion, he’d noticed it. The demon is scratching at the back of his hand, and little bits of skin are flaking away. Rather like a sunburn, actually. He keeps doing it every thirty seconds or so, absently; to be perfectly honest, he isn’t sure Crowley even knows he’s doing it. Just like he’s not sure he knows he spent the entirety of lunch intermittently scratching his back on the chair.

“Are you molting?” he asks finally. “Or shedding? Or both?”

“What?” The Bentley swerves a bit, avoiding a pedestrian by the narrowest of margins. “What gives you that idea? I’m fine.”

Aziraphale just reaches over and grabs Crowley’s jacket sleeve, pulling it back enough to reveal not just the patch he’d been picking at, but a wide stretch of fresh-looking skin with a delicate lace of peel around it that runs from the boniest part of his wrist into his sleeve. He waits a beat, watching the demon stare at it, and adds, “And you’ve been scratching your back for three days. Either you’ve developed an allergy to me, my dear, or-”

“Our corporations don’t _have_ allergies, angel,” Crowley interrupts. “It’s not possible. And don’t give me that business about holiness technically being an allergy. We argued that one to death in 1819[1].”

He allows himself a small smile of victory. “So you’re molting. Or shedding.”

There’s a pause, and he can see the demon running through a mental list of ways to get out of the conversation or deny what’s going on. He gives up after a moment, like his heart’s not in it. “Both.” It comes out morose. “Wasn’t sure until this morning. _Everything_ itches. All of it.”

He’s never seen Crowley in anything but the earliest stages of molting, after which he usually disappears for a week or two. He’s seen him shed once or twice, but always in snake form - not roughly human-shaped. And both at once? Aziraphale is confident that he wouldn’t have been allowed to see that, before Armageddon. Still, they’re both expecting this molt to be as weird as his had been; the shedding wasn’t exactly strange for a demon based on a snake, but who’s to say this one wouldn’t be different too? “Would being a snake help?”

“Nnngh.” The demon hisses in frustration at a bus he’s rapidly overtaking and jerks the steering wheel - and maybe coincidentally his sleeve[2] \- into a turn, one that will take them to Crowley’s apartment instead of the bookshop. “Not really. If it was just the shedding, yeah. It’s faster that way. Cleaner. Less… gross bits. Eye caps are bloody terrible, though. But molting as a snake - mmyeah, no. No wings, so it’s just occult itch on my back _all the time_ until I change back.”

That makes quite a bit of sense, although he’s a little embarrassed that it had to be explained; he should have known. Snakes don’t exactly have wings, no matter what certain traditions might have to say on the subject[3]. “Have you had both happen at once recently?”

“Nope.” The Bentley dodges around a series of vans, Aziraphale’s fingernails digging into the door, and then Crowley says quietly, “Haven’t done both in over six thousand years.”

“The Garden?”

“Before that.”

Before - oh. The Fall.

He doesn’t quite get his thoughts gathered before the demon starts talking again. “Anyway, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Shedding as a human is mostly like having the world’s worst sunburn. Once we peel my back so there’s nothing in the way for the wings, it’s no big deal. I can get anything that doesn’t fall off on its own by taking a shower. Nice hot one, turn up the pressure - takes care of it. No problem.” His nails scrape across the peeling skin again. “Just want to make sure nothing stops the wings from growing.”

“At least this time, we have some idea what to expect,” Aziraphale replies, letting Crowley take the retreat. They don’t talk about the actual Fall much, and it doesn’t take much thought to put together what little he has said - burning sulfur, impact, divine grace ripped away - and this new information and decide that it’s worth accepting the distraction. They both have their sore spots, after all. “Oh, I wonder what colors they’ll be.”

He gets a grunt in response, but that’s all right. He’s long since gotten used to filling in the silence when Crowley stops talking, and the drive isn’t long enough to run out of topics.

They’re barely through the front door before the demon snaps his fingers, losing his clothes in favor of a pair of silk pajama bottoms. Shirtless, his torso and arms are a mess of old skin, new skin, and peeling skin; there’s a strip right along his spine that’s just starting to curl free. It looks like he’d had the worst kind of sunburn, the kind that would have ordinary humans in the hospital, and the dead skin was just now shucking away.

He leads the way back to the office again, flipping an irritated hand at the desk and throne until they shove off to the corner again in favor of the same simple chair from before. “Right, let’s get this over with.”

Aziraphale clasps his hands in front of himself. “Where do you want me to start, my dear? With the… er… peeling?”

“Just…” Crowley waves one of his own hands, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder as he drapes himself into the seat. “Grab a loose bit and pull. Dig your nails in a little if you can’t find a good spot to start. If you’re lucky, it’ll come off in one big sheet.”

It doesn’t come off in one big sheet. 

He’s able to pull the loose bit down, rather like a zipper, but that only clears the demon’s spine down to the hollow of his lower back. The skin that comes loose is thick, smooth, and - though it really shouldn’t be a surprise - patterned like scales, whitish bands delimiting each translucent shape. The left side actually peels off cleanly, once he slips a fingernail under a ragged edge; it takes with it a long strip off the back of Crowley’s arm and over his shoulder to his collarbone. The demon huffs impatiently and snatches the shed skin over his shoulder, peeling half his chest as he yanks at it until it lets go. He tosses the shredded piece across the room, where it slithers down the wall into a pile with a rustle like a snake unwillingly sliding across a surface[4].

Aziraphale just stands back and lets him get it out of his system. “Better, my dear?” he asks eventually.

“Nnnngk.” Crowley stops wriggling and flaps his right hand instead. “Get the rest, angel. It _itchessss_.”

The right side takes a good five minutes and a dull letter opener to get started, but once it goes, it’s a little like being backstage after a dance performance, watching men shuck long-sleeved leotards and leave them hanging around their waists[5]. He suspects the whole rest of that side will peel off like a pair of trousers once the demon isn’t, well, _wearing trousers_, but he gets another impatient hand-gesture when he suggests the idea.

“Wings, then shower.”

“Well, let’s see them, then.”

The demon pulls his wings into view, and Aziraphale is absurdly glad he stepped back, because what comes blowing into the physical realm from the ether is a pair of ruffled wings, those same four lumps that had been on his own back, and a veritable cloud of black feathers. It looks, he thinks, like every single feather that had molted thus far - which is a significant number of them - has decided to simply stay put in the ether despite the lack of attachment to the being from whence they have come. He’s sure he’s seen a painting like this, of a fallen demon surrounded by an inky pool of their former feathers, but where and when and what happened to that particular piece of art, he can’t recall.

His eyes flick up after a moment to look at what’s still on the wing. Not all of the black feathers have fallen away, he doesn’t think, but it’s hard to tell. Because where there had once been sleek black from wing-tip to wing-tip, the black is now filled with space. Inside, there are nebulae in reds and purples and blues, the colors extending beyond the spectrum that humans can see - deep purples and reds that no one but the angels that designed the night skies have proper names for. On the outside, it’s shimmering galaxies. On both sides, there are millions upon millions of stars. It’s not a star-map, he doesn’t think, unless it’s from a vantage he’s never seen.

Crowley kicks a foot out, and by the tilt of his head, he’s watching the feathers swirl out of the way of his toes. “So?”

Aziraphale presses his palm against a binary star cluster among the scapular feathers. It’s just to the left of center, not too far from where human-shaped beings keep hearts. “I think,” and he will never deny the awe in his voice, because this is _beautiful_, “I found Alpha Centauri.”

He feels the shiver that runs through the demon through that one connection. One more feather drops from the left wing, revealing a galaxy on the blood feather growing in behind it.

“You’re going to take pictures for me, angel,” Crowley finally says. “Of all of it. So I can see.”

“I don’t think there’s a camera in existence that can - “ Aziraphale starts, because he doesn’t mind taking the photos, but the likelihood that a camera made for the human eye will be able to capture the richness and variety of color he can see seems low.

“_Picturesssss_,” the demon insists, twisting in his seat. He runs a finger along the inside of his left wing, a nebula rippling as his fingertip passes over the vanes. “Don’t care, ‘Zira. Whatever it is you were going to say, we’ll _make_ one that can do it. I need to _see it_.”

That seems unlikely, that there would be a camera that can capture the colors of a celestial eye, but maybe he’s wrong. Even if he isn’t, it’s not a fight he wants to have right now. “All right.” He looks down at the feathers surrounding them for a moment. “I suppose we should do something about this before I get started. Is this normal for you, my dear? Most of the feathers dropping at once?”

“No. Usually twig to what’s going on because I wake up being stabbed by a quill or two.”

“But it’s happened before?”

“Yes. Once. It’s not itching any _less_, angel.”

And that once, if the tension in the demon’s back is any indication, is the exact same as the last time he both molted and shed. “I imagine not.” 

“Just miracle them away. I’ve got a whole set tucked away in case I break something.”

He could. He absolutely could just banish all of these sleek, lovely black feathers into the ether, even knowing that Crowley had not-as-secretly-as-he-thought kept several pure white feathers. Or he could embrace the idea for a distraction that’s probably, if he’s honest, coming from that _just enough of a bastard_ bit of himself and not do what he’s told. After all, he knows the demon doesn’t like talking about the Fall on an ordinary day - not while sober, anyway - and both molting and shedding are vulnerable times for him, times where he’d probably want to talk about it even less. Doing both at once must be a little overwhelming, and then there’s the memories on top. He could absolutely use a distraction. Truly, they both could.

Aziraphale grins and miracles up a broom.

Crowley looks over his shoulder and groans. “Oh, just get _on_ with it, angel.”

“You finished all four wings before the new ones became a problem. We have a few minutes to do this properly.” He’s _aiming_ for prim this time, and he knows he hit his mark when he gets an eye-roll.

“_Azsssiraphale._” The demon buries his face in his arms. “Is this retaliation? For keeping your feathers?”

He can’t help but laugh. “Oh, no. I’m keeping a few of _your_ feathers as retaliation, my dear, although I think you’ll find there’s really no need for payback on that. No, this is just efficiency. After all, if I’m keeping a few for myself, I should have the best possible selection, shouldn’t I? For now, though, I just need them out of the way. They are something of a tripping hazard.”

“And you couldn’t just - no, of course you couldn’t just miracle them away. You’re determined to torment me instead.”

“I know you’re the expert, Crowley, but it’s hardly a torment. Just a minute or two.” A few quick flicks of the broom pulls the pile of feathers together enough to move them out of the way. “Aren’t you going to ask about your back?”

“Will asking make the sweeping go faster?” It’s a little petulant, like he gets when Aziraphale’s made his point. 

It makes him feel a little guilty, to be honest; there's not really a point here to be made, other than distraction. Maybe he should sweep faster. “Four,” he says instead of answering the asked question. “Just like mine. I believe that makes us equals in… whatever’s going on.”

“We were already equals.” Crowley flaps a hand at the pile of feathers. “Are you done yet? Please tell me you’re done.”

“Close enough, I suppose.” He banishes the broom with a snap of his fingers and reaches for a wing.

“_Finally_.”

They’re in the middle of an extended argument regarding what Aziraphale is allowed to hum while he works - hymns are right out, _apparently_ \- and what he’ll listen to of Crowley’s extensive music collection when he finishes straightening the last primary on the outside of the demon’s wings and checks on his back. He’s just in time to see the new wings unfurl from whatever metaphysical pre-wing space the lumps represent. He moves to get a better look, curious. No one in Heaven or Hell had grown wings like this. If they had, no one recorded it, because he would have _seen_ a record of this in Heaven’s extensive library. Even birds are born with a sort of wing-like shape, so he can’t even liken it to that. This is uncharted territory.

They emerge wrist-first, one pair at a time, then unfurl like spreading hands once the primary feathers are free. Behind the emerging scapulars, the lumps recede into the demon’s back again, as best as he can tell; it feels invasive to spread the new feathers just to check. “Crowley.”

“Nngh?” The demon leans his head back. “That them, then?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Felt something change.” He shrugs. “But I was waiting for it. And your voice went soft, angel, which I suppose means they’re not ugly. What colors did they turn out?”

They’re not ugly at all. They’re quite beautiful, actually, and Aziraphale says so. “The top ones match your hair. The bottom ones are…” He frowns. “Well, they’re either brass or gold, but… You know how they both tarnish into that dark golden color, my dear? They’re that color. I think we might need some sunlight to be sure of which it is.”

“It’s a little predictable of Her, if she gave us both gold. A little Heavenly. A little on the nose, if it’s _tarnished_ gold.”

Oh, _honestly_. “Neither one of us is drunk enough for that level of theological discussion,” and if he sounds disapproving, it’s because he _is_. They are _far_ too sober to start questioning God’s artistic choices. It always leads to dolphins, somehow, usually by way of the blobfish. “Besides, gold matches your eyes, and I think we’ve already established that I’ve a pair that matches mine.”

Crowley rolls his head to stare at him with those bright serpent’s eyes. “So does brass. Are you going to finish with this?” He lifts one of his star-filled wings a little, pointedly. “In case it’s escaped your considerable attention, everything _itches_. I’m not a demon right now; I’m a being of pure itch. The sooner you’re done, the sooner I can put the wings up for a bit and go shower the rest of this off.”

“If you’re going to be difficult, I can leave you to do the rest by yourself.” It’s not much of a threat, Aziraphale acknowledges privately, if he’s smiling and already reaching for a feather when he says it.

* * *

[1] In 1819, John Bostock described hay fever for the first time. By 1820, Aziraphale and Crowley had agreed to _never discuss it again_, lest one or both of them actually carry through with the experiments they had proposed during a drunken binge. [Return]  
[2] It’s not a coincidence. [Return]  
[3] He thinks, anyway. There are a few years in there where Crowley _could_ have been in Mesoamerica, and it wouldn’t be the only time he’d used an illusion, but impersonating a deity doesn’t really seem the demon’s style. One day, he’ll have to ask. [Return]  
[4] A sound that both beings in the room are uncomfortably familiar with. [Return]  
[5] But only a little. Crowley is considerably less sweaty, for one. [Return]


	8. Step 8: Don’t Let Past Mistakes Haunt You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Didn’t figure you could hang out with the Antichrist and fight the Four Horseman and be _normal_, did you? Where’s the fun in that?”

**Nine years, three months, and eight days from Now**

There’s a funeral when Wensleydale discorporates for the first time. 

It’s not like anyone realizes he isn’t dead at first, really. Pepper only figures it out because something’s twitchy between her shoulders - between her _wings_ \- as they stand there at the gravesite, and when she reaches for those new extra senses she’s gained and carefully excludes too-bright Adam from them[1], she can see the faint outline of very familiar spectacles. Granted, she’s pretty sure there are wings behind him too: blue and yellow-gold, with a subtle white stripe racing through them.

When all the other mourners have left, she circles the grave to where he’s standing and hisses, “Wensleydale, you _massive tit_.”

There’s a beat of pause. And then a familiar, if kind of spectral, voice says, “Actually…”

“Don’t you say it, Wensley. Don’t you - “

“I’m pretty sure I’m a Eurasian blue tit.” He smiles apologetically and shrugs one shoulder, letting the wing spread out in display. 

Pepper throws a tissue through him and glares, because she’s not entirely sure she can punch him just now.

“And I’m fairly sure I’m not properly dead, but it didn’t seem like anyone could see me during the service. Except you and Adam, of course.”

“Well, your body’s dead. And buried, now. Do you even know what happened?”

“Of course I know what happened. I was hit by a bus. It’s statistically unlikely, but it does happen. I was like this before the bus stopped moving - which, actually, I suppose that’s probably a mercy, considering how much blood there was. Do you know, I don’t think the man who said he was a doctor - “

“It’s called discorporation,” Adam says suddenly, and despite herself, Pepper jumps. She’d seen him leave with the rest of the mourners, she’s sure of it, but now he’s stepping up next to her. She really ought to be used to him being a little uncanny by now, but he can still sneak up on her like no one else. Not even the new senses she’s currently using had warned her, and that’s just not fair at _all_.

It’s even less fair when he’s got that little bit of a smile that says he knows what she’s thinking right now.

“Didn’t Aziraphale mention that one time?” Wensley says. “Well, several times, but only the once when we were all there.”

They all know Aziraphale and Crowley as friends by now; hard not to, really. When everybody still lived in Tadfield, they’d always show up a few days after Adam’s birthday, exactly on the anniversary of the airbase, with some kind of ridiculous dessert, and invite the Them - and Anathema and Newt - on a picnic. They don’t always meet in Tadfield anymore, not when half of them are at university, but London’s the perfect place to meet up, especially when the immortal beings are paying. It’s less about dessert now[2], but there’s always something interesting to eat and something interesting to _hear_. And if maybe all of the Them had a little extra help passing History, well - their teacher back in Tadfield always _said_ primary sources were the best way to know what really happened, so it wasn’t _cheating_.

“Yep. And he and Crowley are going to be your experts on it.” The former Antichrist grins at Pepper. “The rest of us haven’t managed to lose a body yet.”

“The rest of us?”

Pepper crosses her arms and glares at Adam this time. “Well, where’s your wings, then?”

“Don’t got ‘em yet.” He shrugs. “’They’ll be along in no time,’ She says. And Brian hasn’t got his yet either. But I started off a little more supernatural than you did, so I figure I already count.”

“Why us four?” Wensley’s drifted a little closer now.

“Didn’t figure you could hang out with the Antichrist and fight the Four Horseman and be _normal_, did you? Where’s the fun in that?” There’s a beat of a pause, and then Adam grins that grin that always, _always_ means either he knows something a little extra that he’s not supposed to or he's about to start something that he knows will make Pepper roll her eyes and hit someone. “We should get going. The sooner we get you there, the sooner we can find out if there’s a cloning vat or something for new bodies.”

“Cloning just makes identical babies, you know. You have to start off with some cells, which, they just buried me, so I’m not sure how you’re going to get cells - oh, wait, they get them from hairbrushes on the detective shows, don’t they? You just need the roots - “

Look, she has wings like an angel or a demon now. She’s allowed to punch the Antichrist for being an arse and getting another lecture started, even if it’s just a punch on the arm. And she’s also allowed to chivvy that same Antichrist and the spirit of the Guardian of Reason into her car[3] so they can all go to a London bookshop to learn about what happens when their bodies die.

It’s only when Wensley’s explaining what being discorporated actually feels like that she realizes that she knew - she just plain knew - what his dominion was. It’s not because of one of the weird new senses, though. No, it’s because it’s _Wensleydale_. What else would it be?

* * *

[1] Even years past Antichristdom, Adam still presents a large supernatural presence. Very large. “Adam, for God’s sake, will you please just take three steps back so I can see around you” large. [Return]  
[2] Unless your name is Aziraphale. [Return]  
[3] Actually… Wensley doesn’t precisely ride in the car. He’s more clinging to one of Pepper’s ethereal wings - _hen harrier, very nice. Did you know they practice polygyny?_ \- and hoping she won’t punch him for it than anything else. There’s a bit of a smile every time Adam looks back to say something to him, like he knows exactly what’s going on and thinks it’s funny. Which, actually, it’s Adam. He probably does. [Return]


	9. Step 9: Find a Good Workspace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The demon shoots him a skeptical look. “This is _not_ all of your Bibles.”
> 
> “It was when I put down the circle.”

**Six months from Now**

It’s not so much that they _meant_ to drink all night as it is they got started drinking at dinner, then sobered up so Crowley could drive them back to the bookshop, then had an after-dinner bottle or three, then sobered up _again_ because Aziraphale wanted cannoli just after 1 AM and the miracled kind _just wouldn’t do_, and then of course it wouldn’t be proper to have cannoli and not drink the right wine. They’re not even trying to celebrate; it just kind of happened that after spending most of the day in Tadfield with four children and a pair of lovely young people as they all remembered what was both the best and worst day of the last six thousand years, they wanted a couple of drinks. It’s not like they had anywhere they needed to be - and more importantly, it’s not like anyone’s going to try to kill them in the morning, which is a vast improvement on a year ago.

All of which is to say: they are _staggeringly_ drunk in the small hours of the morning.

Crowley is twisted into a position on the sofa that shouldn’t be comfortable for anyone with a spine, in Aziraphale’s not-so-humble-anymore opinion, but he seems to be comfortable. Or not uncomfortable, anyway. And he’s got his head in Aziraphale’s lap, which is also not uncomfortable[1]. “The thing is - “

He doesn’t hear what else the demon says, because that’s the exact moment he realizes that there’s a light that shouldn’t be there in his shop. He can’t see what’s casting it; it looks like it’s in an alcove around the corner.

And it’s _bright_. And not moving. Well, not moving any more than his head is as he tries to turn and look at it.

“Crowley?”

“Mmmhmm?”

“There’s a light.”

He can practically feel the stare. “…Yes? It’s been on since… since… cannoli.”

“In the _shop_. Tell me you see that too?”

There’s a bit of a pause. “Yesss. That’s definitely light.”

“Well, it’s not supposed to be there.”

“Nnnngk.” There’s a snap and a sort of tingle from the demon-ish direction, the kind that means he’s done a miracle. “Right. Should do something about that. Make sure nobody’s bothering your books.” Crowley slithers upright and over the back of the sofa with a distinctly not-drunk grace. “Coming, angel?”

Aziraphale sighs and banishes his own load of alcohol. This is the _third time_ tonight. He’s never going to get the barroom floor taste out of his mouth.

Becoming sober doesn’t make the glow disappear, of course, so he gets up and follows the light into the main room of the shop. As he makes his way into the main room, he realizes it’s almost daylight-bright over… oh. Oh dear. There’s a glow coming from under one particular carpet. “Crowley? You may want to step away from that, my dear.”

The demon slides back half a step. “Please tell me that’s not a communication circle to Heaven.”

“Well, it was; I’m not sure what it is now. It’s perfectly inert most of the time, or I would have said so.”

“That is not ‘perfectly inert.’” There’s a note in Crowley’s voice that suggests there’s a bigger discussion to be had later, after the floor isn’t glowing suspiciously, which the angel chooses to ignore. One must have priorities.

“Ah, no. It’s not supposed to do this at all.” Aziraphale considers the carpet and the circle beneath it. If he were simply going to use it - and maybe now is not the _best_ time to think about how well that went when he’d last used it - he’d simply fold the carpet back out of the way. That did assume it wasn’t displaying an absolutely inappropriate level of activity for something that normally requires candles and intentionality to use, though. “It’s in the middle of my shop - I was hardly going to set it up so they could call me directly, not that they would have. And I did put all the Bibles in here, so you wouldn’t come looking for something to read - just in case.”

The demon shoots him a skeptical look. “This is _not_ all of your Bibles.”

“It was when I put down the circle.” 

Well, there’s only one thing for it. He’s not going to reach across that circle until he knows what’s going on, and folding the carpet would involve stepping over an edge of it, so that’s right out. All he can do is yank it out of the alcove by one end. And so, as Crowley says, “It’s been here - Angel! That was _three hundred_ \- ” he does.

The demon’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click, and Aziraphale just… lets himself sit down, right on top of the rumpled rug. Because where there ought to be a Heavenly communication circle, there’s instead one that is of neither Heaven nor Hell. His circle, the one he’d drawn, was perfectly round; so too is this one. But where his had tidy geometric lines and careful celestial script, this is a braided circlet of vines and leaves. It’s still inscribed in white, but whatever power makes it run is crafting a third dimension, so that the pale lines look like the outlines of greenery made of light. In the middle, a beam of what can only be sunlight streams upwards.

“That - “

He shakes his head. “No. Not at all.”

“It’s not holy,” Crowley continues after a moment. “Or infernal. Can’t sense either, anyway. And it ssssmells…” There’s a quick flick of a forked tongue, followed by that habitual sideways glance that means he’s checking to make sure Aziraphale doesn’t mind. “Like nature. Green. _Applesss_.”

He can smell the apples, now that it’s pointed out. And there is a sense of some power at play - not celestial or occult, but something else, something hard to pick out amid the background noise of the Earth around them.

Earth.

Aziraphale doesn’t realize he’s laughed, once and a little high-pitched, until Crowley hisses, “What?”

“It’s not holy or divine.” He gestures at the circle, at the vines of light twining around it. “It doesn’t read like much to the senses, right? There’s some power there, but for that much light and energy, you’d expect more, right? Something a little alien?”

A moment of considering, and the demon nods.

“How does a demonic portal feel in Hell?” He’s not sure if Crowley would remember how portals feel in Heaven - which is to say, like something powerful, but wholly part of the world in which it exists. Like fires in the heat of the day in a desert, it’s only when you’re close enough to be in the wash of them that you feel the metaphysical heat.

“Er… Like more of what you’re standing around in all the time, I suppose. Concentrated-like.” He blinks and tilts his head, then takes a half-step forward and a full one back before returning to his original spot. “I see where you’re going with that. Earth portal?”

“That’s certainly what it feels like.”

“Well, then, where does it lead?” The demon leans against a supporting beam and squints at the light. “I mean… It’s not like we can just go ask someone that already knows how all this works. Would it kill Her to give us an _instruction manual_ just once?”

In a display of absolutely impeccable timing on Someone’s part, the shaft of sunlight abruptly turns off. The green vine circle spins into the floor and vanishes as well, leaving them in the semi-darkness of the shop, illuminated only by the light in the back room and whatever portion of streetlight illumination manages to battle its way through his deliberate grime on the windows. Behind the afterimages of light, everything is three-quarters shadow, the barest shapes - and the shine of Crowley’s eyes - the only things really visible.

Aziraphale summons a light.

“You don’t _have_ to say 'let there be light' every time, angel.” Crowley is smiling slightly.

“I _like_ saying it,” he answers, but his attention isn’t really on the conversation. In the light, the circle is solid white lines: an outer circle that looks braided, with the outline of leaves curling into the middle. There are four large leaves, eight medium-sized leaves, and a forest of smaller leaves. On one of the large leaves is his name, the celestial sigil neatly imprinted - and it’s _his name_, the way he spells it now, not the original spelling. Next to it on another large leaf is the infernal sigil of Crowley’s name, and unless he’s rustier on his occult sigils than he thinks, that’s got the current spelling too.

And in the middle of the circle, lying on the floor, there’s a book.

Aziraphale knows the cover and binding and size and shape of every single book in his shop, even the ones accidentally left behind by stray customers. Even the phone books. Even the ones that barely have covers anymore. Even the books Crowley thinks he can sneak in when the angel isn’t watching. He _knows_ his books.

This is _not_ one of his books.

“Oh!” He’s moving almost before he finishes the thought, stepping into the circle to scoop it up even as Crowley splutters something that was probably a suggestion that he stop[2]. The covers are pale golden doeskin, soft and warm to the touch, and unmarked. He opens the front delicately, searching for the first page with writing.

“That - you - come _out_ of there.”

Ah, there it is. “It’s perfectly fine, Crowley. I do believe She was listening to you, though. ‘On the Tools of Earthly Magick.’”

“I don’t care!” He glances up in time to see the demon throw his arms up in exasperation. “Two seconds ago, that ring was a portal to somewhere else! Keep the book, whatever, I know better than to try to separate you from a new book, but bring it over _here_. Before it activates again.”

“You don’t know it’s going to activate again,” he answers, checking for a table of contents.

“You don’t know what activated it in the first place!”

“No, but it’s on page 19.”

“_Azsssiraphale._” Crowley grabs him by the shoulders and pushes. “_Out._ Or I will miracle you out. And you _will not_ enjoy it.”

“There’s hardly a need for threats, my dear.” He takes a small step forward, mindful of the stacks of books around the alcove when his eyes are on the page. “Ah, the larger leaves correspond to the cardinal directions.”

Whatever Crowley says next - and he’s sure there’s something - is absolutely drowned out by sound and light. It’s a noise like the sound system advert in a cinema, and sunlight surrounded by green.

And then everything but the two of them is in dizzying motion.

Aziraphale snaps the book shut and clutches it to his chest with one hand as a spiraling wind whips through his hair and his coat. Crowley is plastered against his back suddenly, but the demon fights the wind to stand at his left side, the hand on his shoulder working its way down to grip his hand tightly. He may not have meant it as an anchor, but Aziraphale treats it like one, his fingers squeezing just as hard. The ground beneath them hasn’t moved, hasn’t risen into Heaven or dropped into Hell, but the world outside their circle is spinning, faster and faster and faster and _faster_…

About the time he’s trying desperately to remember how ballerinas don’t get dizzy, it stops.

The light shuts off like someone’s flicked a switch, but it’s still bright enough to see easily. Outside of the circle, there are no books. No several-hundred-year-old construction. It _is_ wood at least, but it’s smooth and unblemished, with an opening out into dappled sunlight and blue sky. The only thing that’s the exact same is the circle around their feet, white and inert again.

They can, he’s quite certain, be forgiven for practically leaping across the ring and onto unmarked ground. When they’ve staggered to a stop, he turns his head to meet yellow serpent’s eyes that have temporarily forgotten how to appear human. Crowley blinks like he’s just remembered how and then hisses, “Did you just _ssssswear_?”

“Maybe?” Aziraphale hedges. He doesn’t remember swearing, but he certainly could have. “Where do you suppose we are?”

The demon sniffs the air once. “Applesss again. Ask the book. It should have answersss, if it knows what’s good for it.”

“I don’t think threatening it will do any good, my dear. Maybe we should just walk outside…?”

Oh. Oh dear. That’s the expression that says he may have pushed Crowley into actual upset. “Sure. Fine. Let’s _just walk_ outside. Can’t be any worse than _just walking_ into the unknown circle to pick up a book. Let’s do it, angel!” 

He marches for the entrance, still muttering under his breath. And since they’re still holding hands - and he thinks the demon has rather forgotten that[3] \- and the opening is wide enough for it, they step out into the light together.

Even before he registers anything else, Aziraphale sees the _tree_. They’ve stepped out of the trunk and into the filtered light of a canopy of branches and leaves that stretches out for a dozen yards in each direction. Roots taller than he is snake out from the trunk, rolling along the ground. Apple trees can live for a few hundred years, but by its size, this one must be _millennia_ old, and he hasn’t seen fruit like this since - 

“Eden,” Crowley says softly. “Has She let us into Eden again after all?”

The demon’s agitation has vanished, and it’s hard for even Aziraphale to feel stressed now; there’s a sense of peace to the place, a sense of calmness. It does remind him a little of Eden's quiet. “I don’t know. Maybe?” He takes another step, and then another, pulling the demon along as he goes. There’s more to this place, he’s sure of it, but the roots around them and the height of the hill are conspiring to block the view. The hill… “That tree wasn’t on a hill, was it?”

“No, but who knows what kind of meddling She did when Eden was closed? Things could have changed.” One long-fingered hand reaches up to touch an apple. “I mean, we did, and - “

All at once, there’s a soft chime, one that seems to come from both Crowley’s pocket - Aziraphale can’t help but wonder if he’s actually getting _reception_ here[4] \- and from… the book?

*****

Crowley reluctantly lets the angel take his hand back and pulls out his mobile. That noise is not a sound he’s ever downloaded - in fact, he _distinctly_ remembers miracling anything that sounded nice and pleasant out of the memory banks in a fit of pique one time. So why is he hearing it?

He quickly discovers a new app on his home screen. The icon is a globe - not an apple, which he halfway expected - and the label says it’s called Eden. There’s a notification icon on it, a red circle with a small 1 in the middle of it. 

He glances sideways at Aziraphale, only to find him completely absorbed in the book. Specifically, in a chapter titled “Discorporation.” Ominous. But at the same time - well, he’ll know what to do if this backfires. Which is more assurance than they’d had a few minutes ago, when _someone_ decided books were more important than being careful about unknown magical insignia.

He taps the icon.

With no particular fanfare - no loading screen, no adverts, no manufacturer’s logo - a new screen opens. At the top, it says “Welcome, Incarnate Crowley,” only his name is the proper demonic sigil, the one he’s been trying to get people to actually use for a few thousand years now. It’s even spelled properly. No one has spelled it properly, ever, except Aziraphale, and that’s only ever been in Earth languages. No one.

Once he finishes staring at that in pleased bafflement, he realizes the screen has only two icons, _Map_ and _Help_. There’s a little notification icon next to _Help_, so he taps that as well. Now he gets a search bar, a picture of an apple, and a few lines of text.

_Eat from an apple of the Tree to heal._  
_To restore your corporation, eat an entire apple from the Tree, then sleep in Eden’s embrace._

“Very succinctly put, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley realizes with a start that he read that out loud. “The book was coming to that point, but it does have a great deal more theory to get through.”

He waves his mobile. “There’s a cliff notes version.”

The angel makes a grab at his wrist so he can better look at the screen. “Oh, it lets you search! Much as I look forward to reading the entire book, that might be more expedient.”

“Might?” He snorts as he dances back out of reach. “Yeah, a bit. Circles?”

A pause. “I suppose it would be best to figure out how we got here and how to leave again first…”

Bloody angel. Six thousand years, and Crowley knows better, he does, but he can’t help himself. They’re in a ridiculous situation that’s the angel’s fault, and now he’s _hinting at something._ He’s going to ask for the rest of the sentence. And then, even though he’s absolutely _not_ happy about how they got here in the first place, he’s going to end up agreeing with whatever ridiculous thing it is Aziraphale wants to do. He sighs. “But?”

“But I thought it might be nice to explore a little first?” The angel smiles hopefully. “See what’s here. Maybe the book and your mobile can tell us a little more as we find things?”

“Or,” and he knows it’s not going to work, it never works, “we could go home, you can read the book, and then we can come back and explore later?”

Aziraphale deflates a little, looking apologetic. “It seems a waste to make two trips, but I know this was something of an unplanned event, and I maybe should have thought it through before picking up the book. I do apologize for that, Crowley. If you’d like to go, I suppose I don’t - ”

He could draw this out. He could actually make the angel work for it, not quite asking and all that. But - it is beautiful here, and he _is_ curious. And if he doesn’t give in, they’re going to continue with this conversation as an undercurrent for however long it takes to figure out how to work the circle and get home. And he knows that if they don’t immediately turn around and come back, Aziraphale will end up exploring with out him once he’s had a chance to read the book, since it’s in his shop and all. 

He rolls his eyes and gives in. “Nahhh. Let’s go, angel.”

And if he turns quickly to hide his smirk at how thoroughly his immediate surrender derails his counterpart’s thought process, well, that startled mid-word look he gets is kind of funny. Endearing, but funny.

Right. Walking.

They’re still among roots taller than most humans when they find a stone stairway leading down into the earth. The steps are wide enough for two - comfortably so, even - so he doesn’t object when Aziraphale catches up. And he definitely doesn’t object to the angel’s hand finding his again as underground darkness closes in around them. And when, a few steps later, the darkness fades back to grey, but the hand in his doesn’t go anywhere, he doesn’t loosen his grip.

They come out, once the stairs stop descending, in a wide hallway that curves away to the left and right. Tangled walls and a canopy overhead made entirely of roots let in light and a gentle breeze, but not much more. The floor is level and smooth, an endless mosaic of tiny colored tiles. They’re on red tiles and, without even a glance to each other, turn left. Crowley keeps a hand on the inner wall; it never hurts to be sure[5].

The tiles slowly tint to orange as they walk, and are heading into yellow when they find the first opening. It’s a sort of doorway-ish shape, where the roots have split apart and twisted into thick beams. There’s a platform of stone two steps down from the hall… but beyond that is _the Garden_.

Before he knows it, Crowley is on the platform, tugging Aziraphale along. The way hasn’t felt crowded, even with the two of them walking side-by-side, but it’s a relief to step out onto an area big enough for two beings and twelve wings. “Angel, you’re - you’re seeing this, right?”

“Where are the walls?” His voice is stunned, which, yeah, fair enough; Crowley’s feeling that way himself. It’s a good thing he doesn’t need to breathe. He’s not sure he _can_. “It’s so much bigger…”

They come to a stop at the edge of the platform and - again, without a word - sit down, their legs dangling into the air. There are stairs spiraling down off to the left, but he’s not interested in those right now. He just wants to drink a Garden he hasn’t seen in six thousand years.

It’s some time later when Aziraphale says quietly, “There’s a desert to the north. Can you see it?”

“Not with my eyesss closed.” He smirks at the soft sound of exasperation from his right. They’re high enough above the trees that the scents he remembers are faint to his human nose, but less indistinct to more serpentine senses. “Smellsss good.”

The angel nudges him. “Far be it from me to distract you, my dear, but you’ve been scenting the air for the better part of twenty minutes. I thought we were exploring?”

Crowley tilts his head to half-heartedly glare, but he’s greeted with a happy smile and a hint of a wiggle. He huffs in amusement. “Show me the bloody desert, then.”

The spot to the north that Aziraphale points out definitely looks like a desert from this distance. It reminds him a little of the sands beyond Eden’s wall and a little bit of the sand in his stolen moment of time at the end of the world. And then they examine a point to the south, just the same distance from the horizon, and jointly realize that the lush garden fades away to a proper English wood there. It’s even a familiar-looking wood, although they can’t decide if it’s familiar in a generic way or if it’s familiar in a specific way[6].

“I do wonder what’s to the west,” the angel says finally.

“I’ve got a map,” he offers. “In the app on my mobile.”

“You have a map.” It’s not a question.

“Mmmyeah.” Grinning, he leans back until he can rest his elbows on the stone. “Noticed it when it showed me about the apple.”

“And you didn’t say anything because…?”

“You wanted to explore!” He’s pulled out his phone and is already opening up the app again. The map unfolds on the screen like a piece of parchment, and even if it’s not _modern_, he likes it. There’s a hint of da Vinci in the artwork of it - the sketches, not the paintings - and it’s a sensible map, things marked clearly and no “here be dragons.” There are even two glowing dots that must be the two of them, sitting by the Garden (neatly labeled). He swipes across his mobile’s screen, moving the map over and over until he can see what’s on the other side of the Tree.

It’s a city. Maybe The City, and he’d feel silly that he’s thinking in capitals now, but this city has the British Museum and Aziraphale’s bookshop and a creperie from Paris that hasn’t existed since 1799, a proper Roman bath and the Hawa Mahal and the original Globe. There’s a river running through the city, and it could be the Thames or the Ganges or the Nile - it’s any and all of them, he suspects.

Aziraphale says pointedly, “Well, my dear? Are you going to share?”

He stops the map on a particular building, the sketch of it as clear in graphite as it is in memory - even if that memory is from two centuries before someone nailed a carpenter to a cross - and laughs. Of course it’s here. Where else would one of the wonders of the ancient world end up? “You’re gonna love this, ‘Zira. There’s a library.”

* * *

[1] It would be more comfortable if he’d stop _trying to drink_ in that position. Someone’s trousers are going to get ruined, at this rate. [Return]  
[2] It wasn’t so much a coherent suggestion that he stop as an incoherent _what the fuck, angel?_ [Return]  
[3] Crowley hasn’t forgotten they’re holding hands. He also hasn’t forgotten that it’s mutual, and that Aziraphale is clinging just as tightly as he is. [Return]  
[4] Of course he is. Coverage maps were a demonic invention intended for _humans_, not Heaven and Hell. [Return]  
[5] The palace of Knossos had been interesting. Aggravating, but interesting. [Return]  
[6] Later, when they get around to looking at it in person, all Crowley can say is, “Of _course_ it’s fucking _Tadfield_.” [Return]


	10. Step 10: Improvise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He blinks at the messages in utter confusion, wondering just what he’s missed in the last few months, and then carefully types out, _Right, I’m coming home after this and you lot are going to explain to me what the fuck is going on._

**Ten years from Now**

If you’ve fought off the Horseman of Pollution because of the rainforests[1], Brian figures, you probably ought to see the rainforests, hadn’t you?

Especially if you’ve just finished three years at university, with more bloody years ahead to get a full degree that’s going to mean a proper career. It was just natural, going to the Amazon. Yeah, his family thinks he’s being silly for taking a whole year off so he can go backpacking through a really wet forest, where there were natives and deadly animals and all that, but that was all right. You don’t get the full experience if you don’t backpack it, and this trip is for him, not for them.

Besides, Brian’s never minded a little mud.

He’s been hiking for three months now, and there’s dirt under his fingernails and he’s bleeding from bites from bugs he can’t even name and his hair feels like it’ll never be clean again and he’s _happy_. He’d decided he could use a breath of not-humid air, though, so he’d found his way to the mountains and started climbing. 

And that’s why he’s standing in Machu Picchu now. Everyone says it should be crowded, and the town had been, when he passed through two hours ago. But here he is, and there’s hardly anyone here. Even better, he’s able to climb to the tallest peak[2]. So now he can stare down at the swirling pale mist between the mountains and the green and grey of the stone below and just _breathe_. Yeah, no one else is up here, and he wouldn’t mind if they were, but being alone like this is nice. It means he can take off his rucksack and leave it aside without worrying that someone will try to steal it. And it means he doesn’t have to worry about dropping something vital if he just steps up to the nearest edge.

A wind eddies up from below, stirring up the fog, and Brian leans into it. He’s high enough in the sky that it should probably be a chilly breeze, but it’s just right. And the harder he leans into it, the harder it blows, until he’s leaning and leaning and leaning, stretching out into a space he didn’t even realize he needed. He doesn’t feel out of balance, though. Not here. It’s like _flying_.

Until suddenly it _isn’t_ like flying at all. Not because he’s going to go over the edge, though. No, something is making him fall back onto solid ground. Something, he’s sure of it, not someone, and it’s doing such a good job that he loses his footing and slides across the stone, tripping over his pack.

Green-gold feathers curl above and around him as he lands on his arse, and he gapes up at them.

When nothing else happens for several minutes, Brian decides that staring at them with his mouth open isn’t going to get much of anything done. Yeah, it’s… really fucking weird… but his back feels like it’s trying to cramp suddenly, so he twists to the side and then staggers to his feet.

The feathers come with. And they’re attached to wings. Which are attached to him.

This time, it’s only a minute or two that he just stares, mouth open, and tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. Yeah, it’s still really weird, but his back feels way too much like it’s going to cramp. If he doesn’t move around now, stretch and limber up, he’s going to regret it.

So he does. The wings stretch and flex and twist around him, and he can feel new muscles, ones he’s not entirely sure are physical, waking up to move them around. He doesn’t think he could fly - not yet, at least. But he’s got enough control to set up his phone and take a quick picture down the green outer length of one wing, the inner yellow of the other just in view. Yeah, it’s maybe a little vain - but it’s also _brilliant_, and he knows the rest of the Them will appreciate the sight. He might even be able to make a prank out of it, if they think it’s too weird.

He’s waiting for the responses when a shaft of sunlight breaks through the mist like a spear and pools around him. _**“Guardian,”**_ a woman’s voice says as he lifts his face into the warmth. _**“Your dominion is nature.”**_

Brian flinches and looks around wildly, but there’s no one else on the peak. The voice doesn’t speak again, and the light fades as quickly as it had come, leaving him confused and somehow still a little warm.

His phone pings.

_Woodpecker of some kind, I think. Actually, I bet it’s an European green woodpecker. Only, you’ve got to be, you see, because I’m a blue tit and Pepper’s a hen harrier and Newt’s a magpie and Anathama’s a grey owl. So you’ve got to be another English bird, and you can’t be a golden oriole because it’s only the females that are green and I don’t think any of us are birds of a different gender._

_Wensley, nobody wants an essay._[3]  
_If you start quoting the rspb pocket guide again, I’m burning it._  
_And I dunno if Brian even knows we have wings._[4] _Good job, now you’ve gone and spoilt the surprise._

He blinks at the messages in utter confusion, wondering just what he’s missed in the last few months, and then carefully types out, _Right, I’m coming home after this and you lot are going to explain to me what the fuck is going on._

He’s only just sent the message when his phone rings, that ominous tolling bell he’d thought was funny to assign to Adam[5]. He answers with a flick of his thumb, wiping away a layer of dust kicked up by the continuing wind and his own flailing around. There’s still dirt under his fingernails, even if he does now have wings. “Yeah?”

“You shouldn’t come home early unless you want to.”

“Nah. I think I want to, Adam.” He stares down at the ruined citadel. “I can always go back out. Maybe I’ll go to Madagascar or the Congo. See what those are like. I’ve got nine more months before I _have_ somewhere I have to be, you know?”

“Yep.” The Antichrist still pops his p’s when he’s got something specific on his mind. “I do. You figure out how to put ‘em away yet? It took Wensley three days, once he had a body again. I bet you can do it faster.”

Brian finds the corners of his mouth lifting again at the challenge. “I’m at Machu Picchu. Gonna have to, aren’t I, if I want to get out of here without letting the whole world know?”

“You could fly.”

He laughs. “Not before they kick all the tourists out, mate. No hints - I’ll figure it out.”

And he does.

* * *

[1] Well, and because your mate was the Antichrist, but he got that sorted, didn’t he? [Return]  
[2] He’ll wonder about that later, when he realizes that everyone else had been turned away like there was some kind of list. [Return]  
[3] She’ll never admit it to the rest of the Them, but Pepper _absolutely_ has a pre-written response to send every time Wensleydale sends a text that’s more than three sentences. Well, it would be more accurate to say she has well over a dozen of them, each carefully chosen to not hurt his feelings while still conveying that he’s hogging the conversation _again_. The ones where she’s actually angry, those she types out individually. [Return]  
[4] Brian did not. Adam had promised to explain everything after Wensleydale turned up post-funeral, but that explanation amounted to “God says I’m not allowed to tell you yet, but it’ll be _brilliant_. You’ll love it. Just trust me for now.” And Brian has been, because it’s Adam. [Return]  
[5] Adam thinks it’s hilarious. [Return] 


	11. Step 11: Sometimes You Need the Right Tools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now we’ve got this box to open.”
> 
> “I don’t suppose I can talk you into leaving it alone for a few decades…?” the demon asks wryly.
> 
> “We shouldn’t. Especially if it comes from where I think it does.”
> 
> Crowley circles the counter, eying the box like he, too, thinks it might explode. “Mmmyeah. After dinner?”
> 
> “Tempting.” They share the barest hint of smiles. “She hasn’t smote us yet. And there’s the whole Eden business. I suppose it only makes sense that either She has to get us a quartermaster or She has to do some direct supply, if there’s something She thinks we need.”

**One year from Now**

“Delivery for Mr. Fell?”

This isn’t one of the normal deliverypeople, the ones Aziraphale knows by name (and maybe sometimes gives blessings to[1]). The man’s name tag says Lesley, but Aziraphale remembers his face much more clearly than the tag, and he’s not precisely overjoyed to see that face in his shop. “No. Absolutely not. You caused enough trouble the last time.” Which is probably unfair, but Armageddon is _over_ and things have been quiet and why is he delivering something _now_? They have _dinner plans._

“Sorry, sir,” the man says, and to his credit, he does sound quite apologetic. “You understand, it’s the job, innit? I make deliveries to people that don’t want them all the time. But here - before I have you sign, right here in the delivery instructions, I’m supposed to say…” He squints at the paper. “’For coming times.’ Not sure what that means, sir, but if you’ll just sign here - “

_For coming times?_ Almost against his considerable will, the angel reaches for the pen. It sounds like prophecy. Or God making Her will known. One of the two. Heaven and Hell certainly don’t have the imagination to send them a packed-up warning - not in a box this size. An envelope, maybe, and delivered via miracle, not the trouble and expense of a messenger.

“Ah, sorry, sir, but the instructions say you should sign your proper name.”

“Right. Of course.”

A quick, glowing scrawl of his (new) celestial sigil later, the shop is once again free of mortals[2] and Aziraphale finds himself in possession of a large, somewhat weighty box. There’s a faint sense of power to it - but not Heaven and not Hell. It puts him in mind of the circle. He sets it on the counter, feeling quite preposterously like it might explode.

“What’s that, angel?”

He jumps, but he’s shooting Crowley a welcoming smile as he does. It’s not that he forgot they’ve practically been living together for the last six weeks. It’s more that he missed the demon skulking back inside from his latest watering-plants-and-sowing-mischief excursion, what with the customers and the unexpected delivery, and wasn't expecting him for a few hours yet. Speaking of customers - he closes down the shop with a snap of his fingers. “I have no idea, my dear. Did you hear the message?”

“Nope.” Crowley slides into sight around a bookshelf and squints at the box in curiosity. “What was it?”

Aziraphale repeats it precisely, and watches the demon work his way through the same thoughts he himself had.

“Bloody Hell.”

He nods in agreement. “And now we’ve got this box to open.”

“I don’t suppose I can talk you into leaving it alone for a few decades…?” the demon asks wryly.

“We shouldn’t. Especially if it comes from where I think it does.”

Crowley circles the counter, eying the box like he, too, thinks it might explode. “Mmmyeah. After dinner?”

“Tempting.” They share the barest hint of smiles. “She hasn’t smote us yet. And there’s the whole Eden business. I suppose it only makes sense that either She has to get us a quartermaster or She has to do some direct supply, if there’s something She thinks we need.” 

Aziraphale reaches for his sharpest letter opener, only to have it plucked out of his hand by thin, nimble fingers. “Allow me.”

He doesn’t move away as Crowley neatly cuts open the packing tape and folds the cardboard back. He supposes one or both of them ought to be concerned or suspicious about this, but it’s been a strange year. After divinely transmuted circles and extra wings, what’s a potentially divine mystery package?

In the top of the box is a large sheet of papyrus. It’s fresh, as though it was taken from its maker only a few days ago, and of a fine quality only rarely found even when papyrus was the paper of choice. The ink is as black as pitch. The letters are unnaturally crisp on the page, and in a calligraphic style that Aziraphale can’t actually name, although he knows his handwritten calligraphy down to the decade and the monastery they came from[3].

_To Crowley,_ it reads, _Serpent of Eden, demon of Hell. Incarnate of Earth, now. I give you dominion of wonder, in all the senses of the word - though you owned some of them already, dear one._

_To Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Incarnate of Earth, now. I give you dominion of understanding, because it is already practically yours, My child._

_Within this box, I give you each tools for the war ahead, and I entrust you with the burden of Adam’s. He is still a child, for all his power, and it is not yet time to trust him with that which can destroy. Keep it for My Incarnate of Humanity until he asks you for help with his own wings._

_For now, My First, take the time to breathe. You’ve a few years yet until you’ll need to train the Guardians-to-come. You’ve more until Heaven and Hell will need more than cleverness to turn back. Rest, and learn, and prepare. Spread a little mischief and a little joy. Be the angel and the demon you have been for these millennia; this is all I ask of you for now. When I need more, you will hear from Me again._

There’s no signature, but there doesn’t really need to be. Down at the bottom, though, in much smaller print, there’s a postscript: _Clever boys, and clever Agnes, to know to switch your faces. I’d hate the other sides to find out that was a trick, though; it would be unseemly for two of My Incarnates of Earth to be undone by divine water or infernal fire when their brothers and sisters are not. There are some constants I cannot change without irrevocably changing the universe: water will ever be able to drown, fire will ever burn, My angels will ever be sensitive to the infernal, and My demons will ever be sensitive to the divine. But there’s a world of difference between the stinging of nettles and death. It won’t be fun, and discorporation is always possible, but they will have to come up with other options to destroy you._

“Oh,” Aziraphale says when he’s finished reading. “Do you know, my dear - I think this is the first time God has communicated directly with anyone in a very long time?”

He’s not sure he sounds as startled and pleased and dismayed and awestruck as he feels until Crowley looks at him and says gently, “It’s not quite the sssame as hearing Her voice, angel.”

“I know.” And to be honest, he’s fine with that. Standing about in a spotlight explaining himself to Her once was _quite enough_. “But it’s closer to it than either of us have been in a very long time, isn’t it?

“Yeah.” The demon reaches for the page, moving it aside, and Aziraphale doesn’t fuss. For one, he treats it carefully - and for the other, well, it’s a good time to retreat from the subject.

There are three smaller boxes below. Smaller, but not small; they fill the available space quite tightly. The box in the center is the proverbial plain brown package, with Adam’s name printed in that same ink-black calligraphy. The one on the left - well, the left if one remained oriented to the writing, at least - is the color of cream, with his name in a shimmering blue ink. The one on the right is black, Crowley’s name in metallic red ink.

Before he can comment on the peculiarity of an angel’s box being on the sinister side, Crowley’s hand darts out, snake-strike-swift, and grabs the box designated for him. It’s open almost before he finds a flat spot to put it.

*****

Crowley picks rapidly through the tissue in his box - all gold-ish, like his third pair of wings - to get at whatever mysterious thing She’s decided he needs. He’s sure Aziraphale got a sword, given the note implied a coming war, but the bloody things never really suited him, so if it is a weapon he has to wield, he’s hoping for something different.

The box does not disappoint.

His fingers close over one hilt, then a second, and he pulls forth a pair of daggers. They’re curved in a way that reminds him of fangs - his, to be exact - and the sinuous shapes wound around the hilt are snakelike too. They feel - peculiar. At once uncomfortable and comfortable and eerily familiar in his hands, even if he can feel them thrumming with the same energy as the portal. Maybe a bit like they’re meant to be in his hands, which of course they probably are.

Aziraphale hesitantly reaches out touch, a finger hovering over the surface of a blade before he does. “May I?’

Crowley fights down the instinct to hiss and jerk both blades away jealously. They’re beautiful. And _his_. But this angel - and only this angel, _his angel_ \- is permitted to touch a lot of things that are his, so he relents before the impulse really gets going. “Ssssure.”

The angel presses a finger to the blade gently, frowning. “It’s - strange,” he murmurs finally. “It feels infernal and divine and earthly all at once, doesn’t it? And there’s something else familiar there, too. Almost like - ah!” He hesitates, his hand dropping back to his side. “My dear, can you cross the blades and concentrate? You might want to hold them away from anything flammable.”

“You really think they’re going to flame?”

Aziraphale shrugs, uncertain. “Maybe? I can feel that they should do something. I’m not certain that crossing them is correct, but I do believe that’s how they went about it if you were issued shorter blades in Heaven.”

Licking his lips, Crowley eyes the blades. He can’t quite feel what the angel does, but frankly, he’d never been issued a flaming blade, so what Aziraphale feels because he’s experienced with it is something he wouldn’t recognize. He eases back a couple of steps, carefully making sure that he’s not pointed at anything paper, and crosses the metal of the daggers. “Right. Concentrate, you said? On what?”

The angel purses his lips and then tries to explain. There’s a lot of words about righteousness and divine grace, but he hasn’t felt the latter in forever and the former is like having someone explain a concept in another language. A very foreign language, one of the ones that hasn’t been invented yet. It feels like they’re arguing at cross-purposes again, although there’s very little argument involved.

“Oh, _bother,_” Aziraphale finally sighs. “Can I just show you my memory of it?”

“Yeah, all right.” Crowley beckons him over with a jerk of his head. “Better stand behind me, though - if I can figure it out…”

“Yes, of course.”

There’s a moment or two of negotiating, once Aziraphale rests a warm palm on the back of his neck and they open their essences to each other. It’s not something they did at all prior to Armageddon, and it’s not something they’d done more than once or twice before sprouting two more pairs of wings apiece. Now, with those extra wings, there’s a whole new power level involved; they’re both at the _same_ power level, granted, but tweaking the amount of effort needed requires a finesse they’re still working out[4]. And even post-upgrade, it’s still not something they do _often_. It’s not like it’s a day-to-day kind of thing, this sharing. Very intimate. More than preening and molting, maybe not more than _other things_.

Once they’ve sorted themselves out, he’s offered a memory of sparking to life the flames on that bloody sword. Crowley follows the thread of emotion and action and sensation as they replay the whole thing a few times, tracking down the exact thing he needs. The angel’s right - it’s not exactly righteousness and it’s not exactly divine grace. It’s more a sense of purpose and intent. It’s an acknowledgment that what you’re about to do could really _fuck someone up_, and you’re going to go ahead and do it because that’s the proper thing to do in the situation.

Actually, it’s not that different from when he chooses to be venomous.

There’s a sense of agreement from Aziraphale when he shares one of _those_ memories. So Crowley starts to push his will out towards the blades - but he gets the mental equivalent of a tap on the shoulder when he does.

_Aim there. This angle._

_Then crossing is wrong._

_Then don’t cross them, you daft serpent. Couldn’t you tell I was guessing?_

He chuckles under his breath as they drop the link and adjusts, rolling the hilts across his palms just so and letting his will and its purpose hit the spot Aziraphale had pointed out, the one that feels a bit like a fuse stuck into a firecracker.

There’s a sort of electric tingle and a muffled _whooomp_. And he’d know the feeling that washed over his hands anywhere.

“I’ll be damned,” the angel says faintly. “That’s Hellfire, isn’t it.”

*****

“You should keep back,” Crowley agrees. “Much farther back than that.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He’s been near Hellfire before. There’s a particular sensation to being this close to it, like sitting in a too-warm sauna; he’s not _overly_ familiar with it, but he’d definitely encountered the stuff a time or two even before visiting Hell in Crowley’s guise. Right now, he’s not too warm. In fact, he’s perfectly fine. “I think it might be all right, my dear - think of the postscript. But maybe you should turn it off.”

“And how do I do that?” the demon hisses impatiently.

“The same way you turned it on.”

“Ah. Right.” 

There’s another discreet _whooomp_. The blades should have turned off, and he blinks a few times to clear the ruddy, shadow-sucking brightness of Hellfire[5] from his vision. Only it doesn’t help, because while the Hellfire is gone, it’s been replaced with brilliant, shadow-banishing Holy fire[6]. It’s unmistakable. 

Crowley’s hands twitch once, twice, but he doesn’t drop the daggers. Instead, he hisses out a long breath. “That sssshould burn.”

“But it doesn’t.” Aziraphale thinks of the postscript again, as he circles back around to the counter. 

“No. Tinglesss a little.” The sound of flames silences as abruptly as it began, and Crowley’s whisper-soft steps follow. He sets the daggers carefully into the tissue of his box. “You think yours will do the same. Flame with both, I mean.”

“It seems possible. Likely, even.”

“Let’s see it, then.”

The interior of his package is antique gold, polished to a lovely shine. On top of the tissue, Aziraphale finds a card printed with elegant calligraphy: _You will find this blade much harder to give away, dear one._ He hands it to Crowley with a guilty smile and digs into the tissue, unearthing a sword in much the same style as the blade he’d once bore. 

“Oh, goodness.” For all that it has a sense of power and a frisson of divine and infernal and Earthly sense - a strange combination, one he assumes is related to the materials in the Damascus steel of the blade itself - the sword feels familiar and comforting in his hand in a way the old one never quite did. With all the centuries he’s been alive, this is the first time he’s held a weapon and felt it an extension of _him_ and not a thing someone’s forced him to pick up and use. Just like at the airbase, all the swordsmanship he’s tried to forget since the Garden comes strolling back from the farthest corners of his mind like a customer tapping on the glass to see if his bookshop is open. He tells the knowledge _no_ firmly. And then, reluctantly, amends it to _not yet._

The demon smirks at him. “Let me guess - feels _right?_”

“That it does, my dear boy. That it does.” Aziraphale pushes his will into it in exactly the way he remembers and it sparks up immediately, glimmering Holy fire lighting the shop again. And then he does it again, which gets him Hellfire - he can’t prevent the instinctual flinch, but as he’d rather expected, nothing worse than a tingling in his hand comes from it - and then off again. “Who do you suppose She means by ‘Guardians-to-come?’”

Crowley shrugs. “My money’s on that lot in Tadfield. Adam’s not going to let them go to Heaven or Hell, after the way both sides treated him.”

Well, he could hardly argue with that. “So we’re going back next year.”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Six years isn’t a lot of time to prepare for a war.”

“We had eleven the last time.”

“We had an influence-free Antichrist the last time. I hardly think they’re going to try that again.”

“Wouldn’t they need another Christ first?”

Aziraphale gestures at the box and the papyrus. “I don’t think She’s going to play along with that.”

“Mmmyeah. But how would humans know?” Crowley grins. “I mean, son of God, son of an angel… hard for most people to notice the difference there.”

“_We_ would.”

“Sure. And so would Hell. But if you got an archangel - “

“No!” Despite himself, Aziraphale is trying not to laugh now. “_Crowley!_ I refuse to consider Uriel or Sandalphon creating Nephilim.”

“Oh, come on. You know it wouldn’t be them. I don’t think Sandalphon would know an Effort if it slapped him in the face, anyway." He knows the demon is about to come out with something truly terrible to tease him with just by the way his eyebrow tilts. "It’d probably be G-”

“If you are going to insist on discussing the amorous lives of archangels, and suggest Gabriel,” he says primly, “of all people, would - no, we are _sober_ and we are _not_ discussing this right now.”

“Scotch?”

“Your bottle, if you’re going to come up with terrible ideas like that. And we will _not_ be late for dinner.”

“Whatever you say, angel.”

* * *

[1] Just when they’re having a hard time, you understand. [Return]  
[2] Aziraphale assumed the deliveryman was mortal, but one did have to wonder at a mortal man who was able to deliver to the Four Horsemen, didn’t one? [Return]  
[3] One does have an advantage in recognizing calligraphy and handwriting when one pre-dates the written word and has a consuming thirst for knowledge. [Return]  
[4] It wasn’t just in the matter of mental contact. Crowley has, once or twice, inadvertently summoned an entire wardrobe rather than just one change of clothes, and Aziraphale accidentally summoned an entire high tea three times over the course of the first week. And the less said about the first time they tried to sober up, the better. They’ve mostly got the hang of it now, after a year, but odd things keep surprising them. [Return]  
[5] It’s not that Hellfire isn’t fire. It does a fine job illuminating. It just also causes deeper, more ominous shadows, ones that lurk just at the edge of the fire like they’re being sucked into the flame to snuff it out. Unless you’re in Heaven, where such shadows never existed in the first place. [Return]  
[6] Bringing light to the darkness since before the dawn of time. [Return]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...The note from God? Totally the first thing I wrote in this entire story.


	12. Step 12: Admire Your Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trick with free will is that it’s no longer truly under the divine being’s control. Oh, She can influence it, certainly, but in the end, the choice is not Hers to make.

**Ten years from Now**

The trick with free will is that it’s no longer truly under the divine being’s control. Oh, She can influence it, certainly, but in the end, the choice is not Hers to make. And the trick with not being an angel, a demon, the Antichrist, a key figure in prophecy, or one of four people who pretty directly stopped the Four Horsemen is that even if you _are_ there at the end of the world, doing important things to help Her agents doesn’t have quite the same metaphysical weight as all the rest. It’s no less valued, but it allows Her to extend an offer rather than slot your lives directly into the next phase of Her plan.

So She visits their dreams and offers them a choice.

Apparently, to Her great amusement, She has too many nipples. Or too few. Perhaps She gave a little too much detail in response to his questions, but he would have come to the conclusion eventually. Sergent Shadwell always has been enthusiastic in his pursuit of witches, and from a certain point of view, She is a witch of sorts. He’s curious what She has to offer, but he will not accept.

On the other side of the bed, She is met with the polite firmness of a British queen. No, if it involves one of them staying behind, she _shan’t_ be choosing to go and leave poor Mr. S alone, and she’d very much prefer that he not leave _her_ alone, thank you, if that’s something that divine powers can arrange[1]. And could She please make sure that if anyone tries to contact them in the afterlife, they can never succeed? Madame Tracy knows, after all, that such things are possible, and while she shouldn’t like to judge, she did see an _awful lot_ of people looking to try it, and some of them simply never learn to leave well enough alone[2].

So they will not be Guardians. She suspected as much, but humans sometimes have a way of surprising Her. In lieu of that blessing, She bestows others: good health. Long lives, with quiet, anxiety-free ends. Enough wealth to keep them comfortably, even aside from what Aziraphale and Crowley have and continue to do for them. A little extra luck. 

And perhaps most importantly of all, She ensures that once they have departed their earthly lives, _no one_ will be able use them in any coming wars. Some pieces, once played, deserve their peace.

* * *

[1] It is, and She is happy to give them that option. [Return]  
[2] Well, that wasn’t quite accurate. One of them had learned, but that had involved rather more supernatural intervention than anyone had bargained for. [Return]


	13. Step 13A: Review Your Work…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not ‘the Antichrist thing’ anymore,” he protests. “I know we’ve always used it as short for the weird, but it’s not. Hasn’t been since the airbase.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... step 13 was supposed to be one chapter. Supposed to be.
> 
> However, _someone_ was feeling talkative, so I'm admitting defeat and splitting it in half. It's already at 5500 words and I'm not actually finished fixing the second half yet...

**Ten years and one week from Now**

He meets Brian at the airport. Adam feels like he owes him that much. He’d felt guilty enough when Pepper sprouted wings and he’d had to beg her not to tell the others yet. Having Wensleydale apparently _die_ and then come back - well, Brian trusted him when he promised a proper explanation later, and they have a long history of Brian not-quite-blindly trusting him and Adam _never, ever_ letting him down[1]. He hasn’t asked, but he’s about 50% certain that Brian had honestly just chalked it up to Antichrist-ness and let it go in favor of helping Pepper gripe about people who manage to get run over because they weren’t paying attention until Machu Picchu. 

It’s hardly the first time he’s done something _weird_ and promised to explain later. It’s just the first time where ‘later’ has been more than a couple of days. Thank God - literally, _thanks, Grandmother_ \- it hadn’t taken any longer than it did. The other Them had agreed to shut it so Brian got the same surprise they did, but they were getting restive. (So was Adam, if he’s honest, and it was half about Brian and half about himself. ‘Along in no time,’ his _arse._) 

Adam’s waiting by the gate when the plane lands, in fact - which he really shouldn’t be, but Aziraphale and Crowley had taught him a few tricks over the years, and if this wasn’t an occasion for appearing to be _exactly_ where he was supposed to be, _don’t worry about me, I’m fine here_[2], he didn’t know what was. And if the plane makes it to the gate a little extra quickly once it lands, that’s nobody’s business but his; everyone else is still going to make it to theirs, just maybe a couple of minutes later. 

Brian’s one of the last ones off the plane. He’s rumpled and sunburned and looks three-quarters asleep, but he’s not so out of it that he doesn’t spot Adam immediately and head straight for him. He rolls his shoulders uncomfortably under his backpack as they turn to follow the “Arrivals” signs. “So you know,” he says instead of _hello,_ “airplane seats aren’t comfortable.” 

“Never said they were…?” Adam answers, a little confused. 

“Worse than they were _before._” That’s pointed. 

Oh, right. _Wings._

“Maybe you’ve not got them quite settled right?” he suggests. “Never heard Aziraphale or Crowley complain.” 

Brian snorts. “Right. Adam, mate, are you sure Aziraphale has seen the inside of an airplane since 1945? I know Crowley has, but I’m pretty sure he just turns into a snake and ships himself places instead of taking a flight, just to fuck with people.” 

He can’t help but laugh, which draws the eye of a security guard that he knows saw him going the other way a few minutes ago. A quick flick of his fingers and a trickle of power convinces her they’re nothing to worry about. “Yeah, okay, you’re probably right. Still ought to check - there’s ways to clean them and all, get things settled properly so they’re not uncomfortable. Listen, about the Wensley thing - “ 

“Nope. Shut it. We’re talking about _that_ later.” 

Brian never tells him to shut up unless he’s… actually at least a little mad. And he’s had days to think about everything that’s been going on that he wasn’t fully involved in. 

Which… yeah, okay, Adam is not a _total arse_[3]. Reverse them, and he’d probably be pissed too. But reverse them, and he wouldn’t know about God not joking around even a little when She banned him from warning his friends before they changed. He wouldn’t have been so used to Grandmother God that the appearance of Old Testament God That Doesn’t Fuck Around When She Says No felt way too much like being 11 and staring Satan in the eye, but this time with the knowledge that while he could face down his metaphysical father with no consequences other than the ones he wanted, God was a _completely different matter._

“So tell me about Brazil, then,” he offers as an olive branch. Might be shouting later - well, no, that’s Pepper; might be _words_ later - but for right now, happy stuff’s okay. “What happened with the loggers?” 

He knows that sideways glance and little grin of Brian’s too well. He _knew_ there was more mischief going on than that email let on - he _knew it._

*****

They’re settling down with curry in Adam’s flat a while later when a chunk of naan bounces off his eyebrow. 

“Ow.” Shouldn’t have actually hurt, but Brian always did have a _wicked_ arm when it came to throwing little stuff. “What was that for?”

“We’re talking now.” He pulls his legs up onto the sofa, crossing them, and leans an elbow on one knee. Adam can actually feel a little of his frustration and annoyance, which is - that’s a new thing, but he thinks it’s probably because he’s focused just on Brian and what’s going on with him. Maybe? He’ll have to ask someone. “Thought you weren’t doing the Antichrist thing, but Pepper says you made everyone but us forget that Wensley died.”

“It’s not ‘the Antichrist thing’ anymore,” he protests. “I know we’ve always used it as short for the weird, but it’s not. Hasn’t been since the airbase.”

Brian shakes his head, frowning. “That’s not saying you didn’t do it.”

“Right, but that’s because I did. But it wasn’t for Antichrist reasons.”

“Then why?”

“Because he wasn’t dead, and there wasn’t any other way to deal with it. Well, not any good way.” Adam sets down his plate so he can gesture without getting curry everywhere. “I guess we always get our own bodies back, when we get new bodies ‘cause we broke the old one? So it was definitely Wensley. Couldn’t mistake him for anyone else. People would have noticed, ‘specially his parents, when he just turned back up again. And it didn’t seem fair, did it, to send him off somewhere until everyone that remembered him _died_.”

“So you made everyone but us forget.” There’s another spike of emotion - this one’s more annoyed than frustrated, though. “Like I said. Antichrist things.”

“Well, not exactly.” Adam ducks a new piece of naan, and there’s a scrabble of claws on wood somewhere in the next room. “Hey, watch it. I know Dog can eat anything, but that doesn’t mean he _should_.”

Brian narrows his eyes and rips off another chunk meaningfully.

“Look, I can’t affect Aziraphale and Crowley like that,” he says quickly, because he might be the former Antichrist, but he’s not an idiot. He remembers all the things he did back then, all the things he threatened to do. Brian’s thinking of all that, and it’s not true. Also, he really doesn’t want to be hit with flying flatbread. “Or anybody with wings, not unless you agree to it. And I only did it to people that thought he was dead, and I left you out. I couldn’t very well let his family keep thinking he was dead when he wasn’t, you know? You saw how they were. And it took a lot out of me. Felt like rubbish for days, not at all like the airbase thing.”

“Right, I remember - you were fine, sneaked out next morning.” That gets waved that off, and Brian leans forward, actually glaring. Yep, he’s actually kind of pissed about this part. “And you said God told you not to explain it to me yet, but Wensley was fine. And then I’ve had to wait for _nine months_. And you know I’m not much for the whole God thing, Adam, you being the Antichrist aside - “

“Did somebody talk to you when your wings showed up?” he interrupts. “Woman’s voice, right? Said something about being a guardian.”

“Of nature, yeah. Why?” The anger’s giving way to confusion, which isn’t _exactly_ where Adam is trying to get him to go, but he’ll take it for now.

“That was God. She spoke to Pepper and Wensley too. Still talks to me sometimes, too.” He shrugs uncomfortably at the flat stare he’s getting. “She comes every year for my birthday, okay? Doesn’t usually show up in between, but the night before Pepper got her wings, She came and told me that I wasn’t allowed to tell any of you about this whole thing before the wing thing happened to you, and She was kind of terrifying. Made me promise. So I couldn’t tell you anything more than I did. And She said I had to try to keep the ones that knew from letting on to the others, too. Trust me, you’re not the only one mad about how long the secret got kept.”

Brian shakes his head again, sharply. “Didn’t think there was anything you couldn’t do.”

“Lots of things I can’t do.” He shrugs again. “Some of it I could do before. Some of it, I’m not stupid enough to try.”

“So no breaking the rules if God says it’s so?”

“Like I said, I’m not stupid.” Adam gives his friend a wry smile. “God’s a lot scarier than Satan, when She wants to be, and I really, really don’t have that much power anymore, anyway. And even if I did, taking on God just because I can’t keep a secret is the worst idea ever. I mean… I might could? But that probably would mean destroying the universe, fighting everybody, and that’s… just dumb, honestly. I like the universe. We all _live in it_. Kinda important, that.”

“Long time to keep a secret, though. Pepper said two years for her, and then it’s been nine months since Wensley.” And he actually sounds annoyed again, but it’s about half that almost-playful annoyed, the one where he’s a little pissed, but he’s mostly just giving Adam shit now.

“Brian, mate, seriously.” He gives up and crosses his arms. He was trying not to, because he’s been told it makes him look defensive, but Adam’s pretty sure at this point that Brian isn’t quite as mad as he’d like him to believe. Yeah, he really is a little mad, because who wouldn’t be, but he’s letting himself be sidetracked way too easily. “Are you mad at me because you think I was doing Antichrist things, or are you mad at me because I didn’t tell you a secret I _couldn’t_ tell you?”

That gets him a hint of a sheepish smile (finally) and a see-sawed hand in the air. “Little of both? Promise you aren’t the Antichrist again?”

Adam doesn’t hesitate. There’s nothing to even think about here. “Promise. Not the Antichrist since that mess at the airbase, at all, not once. All the stuff I can do now is just normal things for folks that have powers direct from Her - She just didn’t take that part away from me when I asked Her to turn off the Antichrist bit. You ought to be able to do most of it. Maybe all - not really sure yet.”

Brian relaxes, all at once, and leans back into the sofa. He doesn’t feel upset anymore, and Adam’s pretty sure the Antichrist thing was the thing that was _actually_ bugging him. “Good. So you’ve got wings too?”

“Not yet. She’s been saying they’ll be ‘along in no time,’ whatever that actually means. She said the rest of you had to be ready, but that’s the only hint I asked her for, so that’s all I’ve got.” Okay, maybe he’s feeling defensive about _that_ part. A little. It’s just starting to get _frustrating,_ when every time he starts to relax into the idea of it being a surprise, someone else gets wings, and now everyone that he figured was going to get to be a Guardian _is._

“Ask for another hint?” Brian says, like Adam hasn’t thought of that.

He just shakes his head. “She just asks me if I’ve decided I don’t want it to be a surprise anymore. And I do, just…”

A piece of naan bounces off his chest, but it’s not one of those stinging throws. This one bounces off gently, and he catches it accidentally in an open palm. Or maybe not accidentally, judging by the badly-hidden gleam of smugness in Brian’s eye[4]. “You always were rubbish at surprises,” he says, smiling. “Great at coming up with them, shite at having them happen to you. Just the way you are.”

“Yeah, I know.” Adam shrugs and pops the bit of bread in his mouth. “Not used to feeling left out, that’s all.”

Brian actually snorts at that. “Remember I’ve been talking to Pepper, mate. I know you’ve been in the middle of fucking _everything,_ even if you don’t have wings.”

“It’s not the same.” He makes a face at how childish he sounds. “You done telling me I was being an arse when I couldn’t help it?”

His friend rolls his eyes and laughs. “Yeah, all right. We’re good, Adam. Just, let’s not do it again, yeah?”

“I’ll try.”

* * *

[1] Well, except for the once, and they’d decided he could be forgiven for being untrustworthy, what with the entire metaphysical world deciding he was _going_ to be evil and was _going_ to end the world whether he meant to do any such thing or not and all. [Return]  
[2] One of Aziraphale’s little tricks. Crowley spent the entire lesson snickering into a wine glass, for reasons neither of them wanted to explain. [Return]  
[3] If pressed, he might even admit that he goes out of his way to not be an arse to the Them, after that whole “new friends” thing. Being a little bit of a shit, that’s all right - but not an outright arse. [Return]  
[4] Brian will, for all of time, insist that it was just a good throw and not his first attempt at a miracle. He will be _lying,_ which he and Adam both know, but he’ll insist, just because it’s hilarious to watch Adam’s expression. [Return]


	14. Step 13B: …And It’ll Be Over In No Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an enormous black snake curled around the register, and Adam smiles. “Hey, Crowley. Where’s your nicer half?”
> 
> “Don’t sssssay that,” the snake complains. “He’ll be inssssufferable the ressst of the day.” The dark head slips over the side of the counter, the rest of his body rotating around until the tail-tip follows. “Do I want to know why you’re here?” he continues after he’s put on his human shape. “Somebody set something on fire? More surprise Guardians?”
> 
> “Nope. Wanted to talk to both of you, actually.”

**Ten years and six months from Now**

Weeks pass - _weeks and weeks,_ mutters the part of Adam that’s still ten and the absolute king of Hogback Wood - and things don’t change. Brian’s still crashing in his flat. Pepper and Wensley still have to go to summer jobs - well, they don’t _have_ to, like Adam doesn’t _have_ to, but they do anyway. All of the Them except Brian are getting ready for fall classes, and Brian’s trying to decide which rainforest to visit next.

When they all have days off at once, they go and harass Crowley and Aziraphale for lessons in being whatever they are, or pile into Pepper’s sensible car and go up to Tadfield to bug the Devices. Wensley makes circles like Aziraphale’s shop has for each of them, and it’s great - then they can take Dog through to Eden too, and explore the City and Tadfield and the Garden. They never venture into the desert, because Adam has the strangest feeling that it’s not _finished_ yet, and he’s not sure what would happen if one of them wandered into the wrong pool of potential there.

But in the back of his mind, he can’t forget that even though he can do a miracle or three, he’s still the only one without wings.

The funny part is, he’s not even jealous, he realizes as he watches them one day in late August. He drops off his seat on the Tree, an apple in hand, and sighs. It’s four days past his birthday, and it hasn’t escaped him that it’s the anniversary of Armageddon. There’s an ornate game of tag going on in the skies of Eden; it’s supposed to make them better able to control their flight, but he secretly suspects that Crowley came up with it originally just to see how long it took for someone to lose their temper[1]. He feels left out, but he’s not jealous that his friends can chase each other across the crystal blue sky or through the storms that sometimes sweep through Eden. They deserve this - after all that happened at Armageddon, they _deserve_ their own magic. And he can see them growing into it when they’re out and about in London, too: nights where Pepper shows up with dried blood on her knuckles and miracle power clinging to her like powdered glass. Wensley’s working for a suicide helpline, and he’s kind of shatteringly good at it somehow; he just says that sometimes people need a reason to keep at it. Brian, fresh into his power, can find parks and green life like a hunting Dog finds vermin.

He leaves them to the aerial acrobatics, waving a goodbye over his shoulder when someone calls out. 

The circle in the trunk of the Tree takes him right back to his flat. He could ask it to take him somewhere else, but where he’s thinking he needs to go right now probably isn’t available. He’s talked the possibilities over with the Them - talked it to death, honestly - and even with Newt and Anathema, and he still hasn’t figured out what that hint is supposed to be. And given the kind of humor She goes in for, Adam’s sure he’s not going to get anywhere until he can figure that out. That leaves Aziraphale and Crowley, both as the last of their little club and as the only other ones that might have had more than a passing sentence from God. They’re the only experts he’s got on hand.

And since he knows they keep a rug over the circle in that library Aziraphale calls a bookshop even when it’s not within whatever weird hours he’s decided to keep this week, he’s just going to have to travel the usual way.

It’s getting on towards teatime by the time he gets there. The door’s shut and locked, of course, but the bookshop lets him in before he manages to touch the knob. He suspects that it both knows he used to be the Antichrist and remembers that he’s the one that restored it to life, and that it’s rather hesitantly decided he’s at least as okay a sort as Crowley[2]. It’s probably assigning too much sentience to a building, but stranger things have happened in his life, honestly.

There’s an enormous black snake curled around the register, and Adam smiles. “Hey, Crowley. Where’s your nicer half?”

“Don’t sssssay that,” the snake complains. “He’ll be inssssufferable the ressst of the day.” The dark head slips over the side of the counter, the rest of his body rotating around until the tail-tip follows. “Do I want to know why you’re here?” he continues after he’s put on his human shape. “Somebody set something on fire? More surprise Guardians?”

“Nope. Wanted to talk to both of you, actually.” 

There’s a sort of awkward pause. “Ngk… Adam, look, I get that we’ve been on Earth for six thousand years and all, but considering it took us that long to figure it out, we’re probably the last people you want to come to for relationship advice.”

Adam, utterly thrown, is still trying to come up with a response to that when Aziraphale appears in the doorway of the back room. “My dear, please don’t break the former Antichrist. Would you like some tea, Adam?”

“Yes, please,” he says in relief. He’s used to one or the other of these two coming up with something ridiculous, but usually it’s _funny_ instead of just weird and awkward. “What the fuck, Crowley?”

The demon smirks and gestures for him to go first. “There’s a certain time in a young man’s life - ”

“What he means,” Aziraphale interrupts, “is that you’re unusually thoughtful today. It’s a reasonable assumption that you have something weighty on your mind. And, er.” He shoots Adam a sheepish-looking, but somehow still secretly pleased, smile. “We may have been discussing our own relationship at lunch.”

Well, he’s not digging into _that_ right now. He might’ve been the Antichrist once, but even he has limits. “Yeah, no, it’s nothing to do with relationships.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” comes from behind him.

“Tea,” the angel says before he can answer. “Sit down, please. Would you like some biscuits?”

Once they’ve started, of course, Aziraphale is dogged about keeping them on track. Adam’s pretty sure it’s a ploy to get him to relax; it would be more successful if Crowley hadn’t put him on the metaphorical back foot, and if he really wasn’t kind of embarrassed that he has to talk to them about cryptic hints from God anyway. But finally, after biscuits, tea, pleasantries, catching up on what the Guardians are up to, and at least three stories that probably predate the written word, he’s able to steal control of the conversation again.

“Look, I’m here because I was hoping for some advice,” he says. “About the whole Earthly side thing and all.”

The angel sets down his teacup and settles back in his seat. “What kind of advice, dear?”

“It’s about the wings, actually. I know they have to basically show up when you’re ready, but God gave me a hint about when mine would, and I think I may not be clever enough to figure it out on my own.”

“What kind of hint?”

“She said they’d ‘be along in no time.’”

“Hmm.” The angel and demon share a glance, before Aziraphale continues, “Do you have the letter still?”

“Letter?” Adam frowns at them. “No, She actually just said that. She asked if I wanted to know when my transcendence would happen, and at the time, it being a surprise sounded like a wicked idea, so I just asked for a hint. That’s what I got. And I feel a bit stupid asking Her for another one at this point. It’s been three years.”

He’s pretty sure the look on the angel’s face is what happens when your thought processes _completely_ run aground. He’s just not sure why - or why Crowley has said, “Ngk,” and apparently also checked out a little - until Aziraphale finally says, “Young man, you’re going to have to be a little more explicit for us, I think. While the two of us have heard from Her in the last decade, it was in the form of a letter. To the best of our knowledge, aside from your friends and the Devices, no one has heard God’s actual voice in several millennia. And you’re saying you’ve had a conversation with Her?”

_Oh._ That… really puts a different spin on all those birthday visits. Adam blinks several times before he remembers to answer. “Several?”

“How many is several?”

“Uh… Since Armageddon, She always comes to chat on my birthday? And one other time, the night before Pepper got her wings.”

The angel and demon share a look, the kind that he knows means they’re in total agreement about whatever’s just run through their minds - which of course they’re not going to explain right now. They never do. Instead, Crowley says, “What did you talk about all those times? I mean, that’s a lot of conversations to have with the Almighty Herself.”

“Mostly whatever was on my mind?” he answers. And it had been, except for those two visits. When he was 13, they’d spent half an hour talking about his upcoming school year; this year, he’d had some pressing questions about the longevity of Hellhounds. “Nothing really important, except twice. The one odd visit, that was making sure I didn’t spoil any surprises for the Guardians, and that was pretty much all the warning I got on who they were going to be. And when I was eighteen, She told me about the wings.”

“What else did She say?” Aziraphale asks. His tea is completely abandoned now, and Adam has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s got as much of the angel’s attention as anyone except Crowley ever gets. It’s a bit like being a bug under a magnifying glass, to be honest.

“Not a lot? ‘They’ll be along in no time’ - and She said something about transcendence, and something about the three of us being her First, with a capital. So I figure that means the wings, since I’m still the only one without.” He thinks for a moment. “She said there would be others, but wouldn’t give me a hint. And She mentioned that you two would know more about this stuff, and to ask about discorporation. That’s why I brought Wensley here that time.”

“The First of Heaven were the Archangels, the ones that She created first,” Aziraphale supplies. “The First of Hell would technically be Lucifer and the Princes of Hell. They weren’t all the first to Fall, but they are the most powerful, as the Archangels are in Heaven. She referred to us as Her First in the letter She sent us, and I believe that in our case, that’s going to be the most powerful of Her Earthly spirits, and possibly the most experienced in using our powers - at least for the moment. The experience factor is just speculation, but I can’t come up with anything else that would link a former angel, a former demon, and a former Antichrist.”

But Adam’s watching Crowley by the end of the speech, not the angel. The demon has gone from listening to frowning thoughtfully, and then suddenly his head tilts back until he’s looking straight up. He groans theatrically. “She’s doing _puns_ now?”

Aziraphale stares at him with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s her exact words, Adam? ‘They’ll be along in no time?’”

“Yep.”

“Right.” He sits up - well, as much as Crowley ever truly sits up. “So you’ve been thinking ‘along in no time’ means eventually, right? That’s what people usually mean. It’s like ‘soon’ - it doesn’t really mean much. It’s just ‘it’ll happen, don’t know when.’ Or ‘not going to tell you when,’ in Her case.”

That’s exactly what he’s been thinking, so Adam nods.

“_Oh._ You clever serpent,” Aziraphale says suddenly, with that full-body wiggle that means he’s stupidly pleased about something. “I think you might be on to something.”

Crowley smirks. “What if ‘no time’ is the thing, not the part where it means eventually?”

Adam thinks about that. If ‘no time’ is the point of the hint… then he just needs to be in no time, doesn’t he? Or, to put it another way, outside of time. “How do you get outside of time?” he asks slowly. “You’ve stopped time when I’m around before, and nothing happened.”

“Stopping time isn’t the same as being outside of it, though.”

“What’s the difference?”

“When you stop time, you’ve just…” The demon gestures widely. “Dammed it up, really. It’s like hitting pause on a video. You don’t go anywhere or do anything else. The second you tell it to go again, you’re right back in the flow. But when you actually step outside of time, you’re making a pocket that time can’t affect and going to it. It’s easiest to step back out where you started, but you can technically step back out anywhere after when you step out. Maybe even before.”

_Like at the airbase._

Adam doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Crowley nods. “Exactly like that.”

“Can you do it again?” he asks. “Here and now?”

The grin on the demon’s face is positively smug as he peels himself off the sofa. “Wouldn’t have brought it up if I couldn’t. Get up, you lot - I’m not taking the furniture.”

With one sharp upward gesture from an intensely concentrating Crowley, they’re standing on sand again, the way they were just before Satan arrived in Tadfield. The sky is bluer than blue, the sand itself pale and warm. The air is clean, cleaner than Adam’s used to. It reminds him a bit of the desert in Eden, now that he has it in front of him again. He glances at Aziraphale and Crowley, admiring their full set of wings for just a moment. Even when they were teaching the others to care for their wings, neither angel nor demon had brought out more than one set, but here, they have three pairs apiece. All six wings are roughly the same size, he notices; he’s not sure what he was expecting, but it’s interesting.

…And he can admit to himself when he’s _stalling_. He turns his head to inspect what’s going on behind his shoulders, because the unfamiliar weight at his back is telling him there’s _something_ going on. 

Feathers: that’s what’s going on back there. Lots of feathers. He can’t quite make sense of the colors at first. They’re grey and near-black and near-white - storm-cloud grey, he realizes suddenly. The color of the sky the day of Armageddon, when he’d risen above the trees and called the Horsemen to ride. _That_ kind of grey, bubbling across the feathers like a heavy storm coming in, beautiful and awesome all at once. The feathers are soft like clouds too, when he sinks his fingers into them. It’s a reminder, he thinks, like Brian demanding to know if he’s been doing Antichrist things. It’ll probably do wonders for keeping him humble.

Lower down, the second set - he also has six wings, he realizes - are mottled brown. Some of the feathers are as dark as his hair. Others are tan, or almost cream. He’s seen wings like this before - in a book. A _bird_ book. Wensley’s bird book, when he insisted on showing off what birds the others were. He’d set it down on the table for a minute, and a stray gust of wind blew the pages over[3]. It had stopped on the golden eagle, the pages falling flat as the wind stilled.

The third set is gold, like Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s, but his are the color of a sunset. Not yellow gold, not rose gold - it’s somewhere in between, with just enough copper to make it not yellow and not enough to make it a proper orange.

There are muscles he’s never even felt before along his back, he realizes, and when he stretches them cautiously, the wings flare a bit, trying to spread. Now he understands what Brian meant when he said he couldn’t fly yet; it’s like when you’ve got the flu and everything feels weak and a little achy when you have to get up. There’s no way he could even flap them much, not until they get stronger. But they’re _there_ now.

Adam grins.

“I don’t suppose,” Aziraphale says to Crowley, “that we can get him to put those away before you unstopper time?”

“Mmmyeah, wouldn’t work. Only works for us because we’ve already put them away on Earth.”

“Bugger.” The angel sighs. “Adam, do be a dear and try not to flap those around too much? Or at least miracle back whatever you knock over.”

He almost protests the idea of going back - this moment out of time is kinda wicked - but they’ve already been here longer than they were at Armageddon, and he has a hazy memory of just how much it took out of Crowley then. It would be rude to keep them here just because he wants to sight-see, and anyway, maybe the demon can teach him how to do it so he can take a look around himself. So he shrugs. “Yeah, all right. I’ll try.”

“Good enough for me,” Crowley says. “Brace yourselves, but no need to hold hands this time.”

As the world whites out, he hears Aziraphale respond, “I always wondered if that was just for moral support.”

And then, back in the bookshop, the demon answers, “Pssssht. Moral support. Kind of the opposite of what demons do, angel.”

Adam recognizes that as the outside edge of an inside argument, the kind of teasing he has with Pepper and Wensley and Brian all the time, and tunes it out. It’s way more important to figure out how to make three pairs of wings retreat into metaphysical space before he tries to move from where he’s standing - and before he manages to tip over anything. Well, anything more than the teacup he knocks over just as he manages to put together what he’s heard with what he’s feeling when he tries.

The wings pop out of sight with a snap like closing a jack-in-the-box, and he says, “Shit. Sorry.”

Aziraphale says, “Perfectly all right. It’s hardly the first time,” but that’s not what his little frown is saying _at all_. Adam reaches for the napkins and starts mopping up. “I’ll just get a rag - “

“We’ll clean up,” Crowley interrupts, and he’s looking at that little frown too. “Why don’t you go get the box?”

“Right! Yes, of course. Thank you, my dear.”

Adam waits until he’s sure the angel is at least partway up the stairs before he looks at Crowley. The demon is already smirking. “Look, here’s the deal. We both know you can just make that not have happened - you’ve had enough power for that all along. But if it’s anything like when we got our extra wings, you just got _a lot_ more juice. Takes a while to get used to. So give it a shot, see if you can miracle it, and I’ll fix whatever goes stupid.”

He looks at the teacup - not cracked or anything - and at the puddle of tea, which he’s mostly sopped up. If it was his rug, he’d probably ignore it at this point, maybe run a steam cleaner over it later if it’s just driving him nuts. But he also knows that he’s nowhere near as fussy Aziraphale, and Crowley wouldn’t be encouraging him to do it if he didn’t know that it mattered to the angel. “Yeah, all right.”

A little flick of his fingers and a little concentration should suck all the tea out of the fibers and banish it - and the napkins - off to a bin somewhere. He knows he _could_ put it back in the teacup and it would be just fine, but he also knows that this rug is ancient and he’s not so practiced at clean-up like this that he’s confident his tea wouldn’t bring a little carpet flavoring along for the ride. Just a wave of his hand, and it should be good as new.

The wet spot dries, and the tea discoloration vanishes.

So does - at a guess - a century worth of grime in the carpet.

In basically every rug he can see in the shop.

“…Fuck.”

Crowley _cackles._

Adam crosses his arms and tries not to glare. “Let me guess: you told me so?”

“Something like that. Here, let me fix this before he comes back down.” He’s still grinning as he snaps his fingers. The rugs return to their previous dull, worn state. “My advice? Practice on little things first. Don’t practice on living things for a while. Especially not yourself. I’d say trust me, but…”

He snorts, then smiles wryly. “Pretty sure that technically, you’re as much a demon now as I am the Antichrist. We’re on the same side; I can trust you, at least a little. Besides, that sounds like the voice of experience.”

“Oh, it is,” Aziraphale says from the doorway. He’s got a large brown box half-tucked under one arm. “It was, in a word, unpleasant. Now, this box is one of three that She shipped to us, along with a letter - I can let you read that later, if you’d like, although it does sound like you could simply ask Her what it says.” He pauses. “Or perhaps we should let you read it first, then talk to Her? You might be able to get answers to a few minor questions.”

“Or maybe not.” Adam shrugs. “She’s _cagey_ when she wants to be - you know that, right?”

“We do,” and the angel actually sounds faintly frustrated. “But it’s certainly worth asking - if you don’t mind, of course. As you’re something of our equal now, I wouldn’t dream of ordering you to talk to God on our behalf, but it does seem a trifle unnecessary to go through letters when you have a direct connection.”

Huh. Wasn’t that a funny thought - being an equal to an angel and a demon. Well, former angel and former demon. And he did kind of start off more powerful than them to begin with, then gave it up to be less. Equal feels a bit like the mid-point of those, now that he thinks about it. “I can ask. Not promising anything, that’s all. I mean, it only took three years to figure out what her hint was, right?”

“Just give him the box, angel.” Crowley looks amused.

“I was getting there.” Aziraphale holds out the box. “We were told, in that letter, to hold on to this until you asked for our help regarding your wings. Given that both of our boxes in that same package held weapons, it seems reasonable to assume that yours is the same, although what weapon, I can’t begin to imagine.”

It’s definitely heavy enough to have a sword or something in it. There’s not a big enough clear spot anywhere nearby, so Adam takes the box over to the sofa and opens it there. The first thing he comes to is a notecard, with _Your friends will get their own later; there’s still plenty of time_ written on it in a fancy script that matches the way She’d written his name on the outside. Then there’s golden tissue - must be Her favorite color or something, considering the wings - and inside the tissue, there’s… a thing.

He gets his hand around it easily enough, but at first, he’s not sure what it is. It could be a sword, yeah, but it also feels a little like a staff with something heavy at the end and like the handle of the whip Brian’s parents brought home from the States that one time, the one they wouldn’t let anyone play with[4]. Which one it feels like - and there’s some other things in there too; those are just what he can identify - changes from heartbeat to heartbeat. To be honest, it feels like wrapping his hand around a whole lot of potential that can’t decide what it’s supposed to be doing.

Adam has the very certain, very disconcerting notion that he’s holding a scythe just before he pulls his hand out, but he comes up out of the tissue with a sword instead. A cutlass, in fact[5]. He admires the blade, half an ear on the bickering that’s started up across the room.

“Hooray, another sword,” Crowley drawls. “I think that means his lessons are on you, angel.”

“I’m not the one that swanned off to Nassau in the early 1700s, my dear.”

“I didn’t _swan._ And I’m not the one that had the original flaming sword.”

“You _did,_ and if you’ll recall, I didn’t have that sword for six thousand years.” Aziraphale smiles and pats the demon’s arm. “You’ll be fine. Adam, can you stay a while?”

“Yeah.” He sets the sword back into the tissue, and he’s relieved to see that it doesn’t change to another shape - because he’s pretty sure it _will._ He’s just not sure how to control it yet. “Gotta go home and feed Dog at some point, but I’ve got a few hours.”

“Splendid. I think a lovely red should do quite well, don’t you, Crowley?”

“Mmmyeah. Nothing too old, though - you know he won’t be used to it. I’ve got one that’ll suit.” He disappears upstairs.

Adam looks at Aziraphale, who is smiling slightly. “I realize you two don’t need an excuse, but why are we drinking?”

“Well,” the angel answers cheerfully. “Now that you’ve come into your wings and your power, it seems like congratulations are in order. Besides, it’s the first official meeting of God’s Incarnates.” He pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Do you know, I wonder that title is my fault? I did call you ‘human incarnate.’”

“Yeah, no.” There’s no way he’s getting into that discussion. “Look, I’ve _heard_ you two discuss theology. There’s not enough wine in the world to get me in the middle of that.”

Aziraphale smiles, and that looks suspiciously like a smile from somebody that knows better. He would know - he’s worn it often enough. “Suit yourself, dear. Remind me to look at your sword later. I should be able to show you how to make it flame.”

_“Wicked.”_

* * *

[1] He did. He also lost a good bottle of wine to Anathema for betting that it would be Pepper. [Return]  
[2] Not exactly. The bookshop tolerates Crowley in much the same way the Bentley tolerates Aziraphale: with the sort of vague fondness only an inanimate object that knows very well who its master is can possibly possess. Adam, being only recently - at least, as the bookshop measures things - added to the group of individuals permitted entry at all hours, has only achieved vague tolerance. [Return]  
[3] Or maybe, he’ll think later, it was less a stray gust of wind and more his divine grandmother feeling cheeky. [Return]  
[4] The Them had still tried to sneak it away once. They were all collectively grounded for a _month._ [Return]  
[5] It's one of the few swords he knows on sight. He'd gotten one for his twelth birthday, and it had fueled weeks of pirating - even though it was made of foam. [Return]


End file.
